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THE BACKWOODSMEN 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 








(See page 13b) 



THE 

BACKWOODSMEN 



CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS 

AUTHOR OF “ THE KINDRED OF THE WILD,” “THE HOUSE 
IN THE WATER,” “THE HEART OF THE ANCIENT 
WOOD,” ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 



ftto fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1909 

All rights reserved 



Copyright, 1909, 

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 


Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1909. 


Copyright, 1906, 1907, 1908, by THE CENTURY COMPANY, 
EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE, APPLETON’S MAGAZINE, THE 
YOUTH'S COMPANION, THE LADIES’ WORLD, THE 
DELINEATOR, HAMPTON’S BROADWAY MAGAZINE, T. Y. 
CROWELL & COMPANY. 


Norfajooft $regg 

J. S. Cushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



248758 


TABLE OF CONTENTS 


The Vagrants of the Barren 






PAGE 

I 

MacPhairrson’s Happy Family 






22 

On Big Lonely 






52 

From Buck to Bear and Back 






68 

In the Deep of the Snow . 






78 

The Gentling of Red McWha 






108 

Melindy and the Lynxes 






139 

Mrs. Gammit’s Pig 






150 

In Blackwater Pot 






170 

The Iron Edge of Winter . 






193 

The Grip in Deep Hole 



' . 



199 

The Nest of- the Mallard . 






211 

Mrs. Gammit and the Porcupines 





219 

The Battle in the Mist 






250 

Melindy and the Spring Bear 






258 


V 




ILLUSTRATIONS 


“Red McWha’s big form shot past” „ Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

“One of these monstrous shapes neglected to 

vanish” 18 

“ 1 It’s — Mandy Ann !’” . . . . * .66 

“Where anything from a baby’s rattle to a bag 

OF fertilizer could be purchased” . . 98 

“He was roused by a sudden shot” . 184 


“He realized that he was caught by the foot ” . 200 


) 


vis 


ft 

















The Vagrants of the Barren 

W ITH thick smoke in his throat and the roar 
of flame in his ears, Pete Noel awoke, 
shaking as if in the grip of a nightmare. He sat 
straight up in his bunk. Instantly he felt his face 
scorching. The whole cabin was ablaze. Leaping 
from his bunk, and dragging the blankets with him, 
he sprang to the door, tore it open, and rushed out 
into the snow. 

But being a woodsman, and alert in every sense 
like the creatures of the wild themselves, his wits 
were awake almost before his body was, and his 
instincts were even quicker than his wits. The 
desolation and the savage cold of the wilderness 
had admonished him even in that terrifying moment. 
As he leaped out in desperate flight, he had snatched 
with him not only the blankets, but his rifle and 
cartridge-belt from where they stood by the head 
of the bunk, and also his larrigans and great blanket 
coat from where they lay by its foot. He had been 
sleeping, according to custom, almost fully clothed. 
Outside in the snow he stood, blinking through 


i 


2 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


scorched and smarting lids at the destruction of his 
shack. For a second or two he stared down at the 
things he clutched in his arms, and wondered how 
he had come to think of them in time. Then, realiz- 
ing with a pang that he needed something more than 
clothes and a rifle, he flung them down on the snow 
and made a dash for the cabin, in the hope of rescu- 
ing a hunk of bacon or a loaf of his substantial 
woodsman’s bread. But before he could reach the 
door a licking flame shot out and hurled him back, 
half blinded. Grabbing up a double handful of snow, 
he buried his face in it to ease the smart. Then he 
shook himself, coolly carried the treasures he had 
saved back to a safe distance from the flames, and 
sat down on the blankets to put on his larrigans. 

His feet, clothed only in a single pair of thick 
socks, were almost frozen, while the rest of his body 
was roasting in the fierce heat of the conflagration. 
It wanted about two hours of dawn. There was not 
a breath of air stirring, and the flames shot straight 
up, murky red and clear yellow intertwisting, with 
here and there a sudden leaping tongue of violet 
white. Outside the radius of the heat the tall woods 
snapped sharply in the intense cold. It was so cold, 
indeed, that as the man stood watching the ruin of 
his little, lonely home, shielding his face from the 
blaze now with one hand then with the other, his 
back seemed turning to ice. 

The man who lives alone in the great solitude of 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 3 


the forest has every chance to become a philosopher. 
Pete Noel was a philosopher. Instead of dwelling 
upon the misfortunes which had smitten him, he 
chose to consider his good luck in having got out of 
the shack alive. Putting on his coat, he noted with 
satisfaction that its spacious pockets contained 
matches, tobacco, his pipe, his heavy clasp-knife, and 
his mittens. He was a hundred miles from the 
nearest settlement, fifty or sixty from the nearest 
lumber-camp. He had no food. The snow was 
four feet deep, and soft. And his trusty snow-shoes, 
which would have made these distances and these 
difficulties of small account to him, were helping 
feed the blaze. Nevertheless, he thought, things 
might have been much worse. What if he had es- 
caped in his bare feet ? This thought reminded him 
of how cold his feet were at this moment. Well, the 
old shack had been a good one, and sheltered him 
well enough. Now that it would shelter him no 
longer, it should at least be made to contribute some- 
thing more to his comfort. Piling his blankets care- 
fully under the shelter of a broad stump, he sat down 
upon them. Then he filled and lighted his pipe, 
leaned back luxuriously, and stretched out his feet to 
the blaze. It would be time enough for him to “get 
a move on” when the shack was quite burned down. 
The shack was home as long as it lasted. 

When the first mystic greyness, hard like steel 
and transparent like glass, began to reveal strange 


4 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


vistas among the ancient trees, the fire died down. 
The shack was a heap of ashes and pulsating, scarlet 
embers, with here and there a flickering, half-burned 
timber, and the red-hot wreck of the tiny stove stick- 
ing up in the ruins. As soon as the ruins were cool 
enough to approach, Pete picked up a green pole, 
and began poking earnestly among them. He had all 
sorts of vague hopes. He particularly wanted his 
axe, a tin kettle, and something to eat: The axe was 
nowhere to be found, at least in such a search as 
could then be made. The tins, obviously, had all 
gone to pieces or melted. But he did, at least, scratch 
out a black, charred lump about the size of his 
fist, which gave forth an appetizing smell. When 
the burnt outside had been carefully scraped off, 
it proved to be the remnant of a side of bacon. 
Pete fell to his breakfast with about as much cere- 
mony as might have sufficed a hungry wolf, the 
deprivation of a roof-tree having already taken him 
back appreciably nearer to the elemental brute. 
Having devoured his burnt bacon, and quenched 
his thirst by squeezing some half-melted snow into a 
cup of birch-bark, he rolled his blankets into a handy 
pack, squared his shoulders, and took, the trail 
for Conroy’s Camp, fifty miles south west ward. 

It was now that Pete Noel began to realize the 
perils that confronted him. Without his snow- 
shoes, he found himself almost helpless. Along 
the trail the snow was from three to four feet deep, 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 5 


and soft. There had been no thaws and no hard 
winds to pack it down. After floundering ahead 
for four or five hundred yards he would have to 
stop and rest, half reclining. In spite of the fero- 
cious cold, he was soon drenched with sweat. After 
a couple of hours of such work, he found himself 
consumed with thirst. He had nothing to melt the 
snow in; and, needless to say, he knew better than 
to ease his need by eating the snow itself. But he 
hit upon a plan which filled him with self-gratulation. 
Lighting a tiny fire beside the trail, under the shelter 
of a huge hemlock, he took off his red cotton necker- 
chief, filled it with snow, and held it to the flames. 
As the snow began to melt, he squeezed the water 
from it in a liberal stream. But, alas! the stream 
was of a colour that was not enticing. He realized, 
with a little qualm, that it had not occurred to him to 
wash that handkerchief since — well, he was unwill- 
ing to say when. For all the insistence of his thirst, 
therefore, he continued melting the snow and squeez- 
ing it out, till the resulting stream ran reasonably 
clear. Then patiently he drank, and afterward 
smoked three pipefuls of his rank, black tobacco as 
substitute for the square meal which his stomach 
was craving. 

All through the biting silent day he floundered 
resolutely on, every now and then drawing his belt 
a little tighter, and all the while keeping a hungry 
watch for game of some kind. What he hoped for 


6 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


was rabbit, partridge, or even a fat porcupine; but 
he would have made a shift to stomach even the 
wiry muscles of a mink, and count himself fortunate. 
By sunset he came out on the edge of a vast barren, 
glorious in washes of thin gold and desolate purple 
under the touch of the fading west. Along to east- 
ward ran a low ridge, years ago licked by fire, and 
now crested with a sparse line of ghostly rampikes, 
their lean, naked tops appealing to the inexorable 
sky. This was the head of the Big Barren. With 
deep disgust, and something like a qualm of appre- 
hension, Pete Noel reflected that he had made only 
fifteen miles in that long day of effort. And he was 
ravenously hungry. Well, he was too tired to go 
farther that night; and in default of a meal, the 
best thing he could do was sleep. First, however, 
he unlaced his larrigans, and with the thongs made 
shift to set a clumsy snare in a rabbit track a few 
paces back among the spruces. Then, close under 
the lee of a black wall of fir-trees standing out be- 
yond the forest skirts, he clawed himself a deep trench 
in the snow. In one end of this trench he built a 
little fire, of broken deadwood and green birch sap- 
lings laboriously hacked into short lengths with his 
clasp-knife. A supply of this firewood, dry and 
green mixed, he piled beside the trench within 
reach. The bottom of the trench, to within a couple 
of feet of the fire, he lined six inches deep with spruce- 
boughs, making a dry, elastic bed. 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 7 

By the time these preparations were completed, 
the sharp-starred winter night had settled down 
upon the solitude. In all the vast there was no 
sound but the occasional snap, hollow and startling, 
of some great tree overstrung by the frost, and the 
intimate little whisper and hiss of Pete’s fire down in 
the trench. Disposing a good bunch of boughs 
under his head, Pete lighted his pipe, rolled himself 
in his blankets, and lay down with his feet to the 
fire. 

There at the bottom of his trench, comforted by 
pipe and fire, hidden away from the emptiness of the 
enormous, voiceless world outside, Pete Noel looked 
up at the icy stars, and at the top of the frown- 
ing black rampart of the fir-trees, touched grimly 
with red flashes from his fire. He knew well — none 
better than he — the savage and implacable stern- 
ness of the wild. He knew how dreadful the silent 
adversary against whom he had been called, all 
unprepared, to pit his craft. There was no blinking 
the imminence of his peril. Hitherto he had always 
managed to work, more or less, with nature, and so 
had come to regard the elemental forces as friendly. 
Now they had turned upon him altogether and 
without warning. His anger rose as he realized 
that he was at bay. The indomitable man-spirit 
awoke with the anger. Sitting up suddenly, over 
the edge of the trench his deep eyes looked out upon 
the shadowy spaces of the night with challenge and 


8 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


defiance. Against whatever odds, he declared to 
himself, he was master. Having made his procla- 
mation in that look, Pete Noel lay down again and 
went to sleep. 

After the fashion of winter campers and of woods- 
men generally, he awoke every hour or so to replen- 
ish the fire; but toward morning he sank into the 
heavy sleep of fatigue. When he aroused himself 
from this, the fire was stone grey, the sky overhead 
was whitish, flecked with pink streamers, and rose- 
pink lights flushed delicately the green wall of the 
fir-trees leaning above him. The edges of the 
blankets around his face were rigid and thick with 
ice from his breathing. Breaking them away 
roughly, he sat up, cursed himself for having let the 
fire out, then, with his eyes just above the edge of 
the trench, peered forth across the shining waste. 
As he did so, he instinctively shrank back into con- 
cealment. An eager light flamed into his eyes, and 
he blessed his luck that the fire had gone out. 
Along the crest of the ridge, among the rampikes, 
silhouetted dark and large against the sunrise, moved 
a great herd of caribou, feeding as they went. 

Crouching low in his trench, Pete hurriedly did 
up his blankets, fixed the pack on his back, then 
crawled through the snow into the shelter of the fir- 
woods. As soon as he was out of sight, he arose, 
recovered the thongs of his larrigans from the futile 
snare, and made his way back on the trail as fast as he 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 


9 


could flounder. That one glance over the edge of 
his trench had told his trained eye all he needed to 
know about the situation. 

The caribou, most restless, capricious, and far- 
wandering of all the wilderness kindreds, were drift- 
ing south on one of their apparently aimless migra- 
tions. They were travelling on the ridge, because, 
as Pete instantly inferred, the snow there had been 
partly blown away, partly packed, by the unbroken 
winds. They were far out of gunshot. But he was 
going to trail them down even through that deep 
snow. By tireless persistence and craft he would 
do it, if he had to do it on his hands and knees. 

Such wind as there was, a light but bitter air 
drawing irregularly down out of the north-west, 
blew directly from the man to the herd, which was 
too far off, however, to catch the ominous taint and 
take alarm. Pete’s first care was to work around 
behind the herd till this danger should be quite 
eliminated. For a time his hunger was forgotten 
in the interest of the hunt; but presently, as he toiled 
his slow way through the deep of the forest, it 
grew too insistent to be ignored. He paused to 
strip bark from such seedlings of balsam fir as he 
chanced upon, scraping off and devouring the thin, 
sweetish pulp that lies between the bark and the 
mature wood. He gathered, also, the spicy tips 
of the birch-buds, chewing them up by handfuls 
and spitting out the residue of hard husks. And in 


IO 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


this way he managed at least to soothe down his 
appetite from angry protest to a kind of doubtful 
expectancy. 

At last, after a couple of hours’ hard floundering, 
the woods thinned, the ground sloped upward, and 
he came out upon the flank of the ridge, a long way 
behind the herd, indeed, but well around the wind. 
In the trail of the herd the snow was broken up, and 
not more than a foot and a half in depth. On 
a likely-looking hillock he scraped it away carefully 
with his feet, till he reached the ground; and here 
he found what he expected — a few crimson berries 
of the wintergreen, frozen, but plump and sweet- 
fleshed. Half a handful of these served for the 
moment to cajole his hunger, and he pressed briskly 
but warily along the ridge, availing himself of the 
shelter of every rampike in his path. At last, catch- 
ing sight of the hindmost stragglers of the herd, still 
far out of range, he crouched like a cat, and crossed 
over the crest of the ridge for better concealment. 

On the eastern slope the ridge carried numerous 
thickets of underbrush. From one to another of 
these Pete crept swiftly, at a rate which should 
bring him, in perhaps an hour, abreast of the 
leisurely moving herd. In an hour, then, he crawled 
up to the crest again, under cover of a low patch 
of juniper scrub. Confidently he peered through 
the scrub, his rifle ready. But his face grew black 
with bitter disappointment. The capricious beasts 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN n 


had gone. Seized by one of their incomprehensible 
vagaries — Pete was certain that he had not alarmed 
them — they were now far out on the white level, 
labouring heavily southward. 

Pete set his jaws resolutely. Hunger and cold, 
each the mightier from their alliance, were now 
assailing him savagely. His first impulse was to 
throw off all concealment and rush straight down 
the broad- trodden trail. But on second thought he 
decided that he would lose more than he would gain 
by such tactics. Hampered though they were by 
the deep, soft snow, he knew that, once frightened, 
they could travel through it much faster than they 
were now moving, and very much faster than he 
could hope to follow. Assuredly, patience was 
his game. Slipping furtively from rampike to 
rampike, now creeping, now worming his way like 
a snake, he made good time down to the very 
edge of the level. Then, concealment no more 
possible, and the rear of the herd still beyond gun- 
shot, he emerged boldly from the covert of a clump 
of saplings and started in pursuit. At the sight 
of him, every antlered head went up in the air for 
one moment of wondering alarm; then, through a 
rolling white cloud the herd fled onward at a speed 
which Pete, with all his knowledge of their powers, 
had not imagined possible in such a state of the 
snow. Sullen, but not discouraged, he plodded after 
them. 


I 2 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


Noel was now fairly obsessed with the one idea 
of overtaking the herd. Every other thought, sense, 
or faculty was dully occupied with his hunger and 
his effort to keep from thinking of it. Hour after 
hour he plodded on, following the wide, chaotic 
trail across the white silence of the barren. There 
was nothing to lift his eyes for, so he kept them 
automatically occupied in saving his strength 
by picking the easiest steps through the ploughed 
snow. He did not notice at all that the sun no longer 
sparkled over the waste. He did not notice that 
the sky had turned from hard blue to ghostly 
pallor. He did not notice that the wind, now 
blowing in his teeth, had greatly increased in force. 
Suddenly, however, he was aroused by a swirl of 
fine snow driven so fiercely that it crossed his face 
like a lash. Lifting his eyes from the trail, he saw 
that the plain all about him was blotted from 
sight by a streaming rout of snow-clouds. The wind 
was already whining its strange derisive menace in 
his face. The blizzard had him. 

As the full fury of the storm swooped upon him, 
enwrapping him, and clutching at his breath, for an 
instant Pete Noel quailed. This was a new adver- 
sary, with whom he had not braced his nerves to 
grapple. But it was for an instant only. Then his 
weary spirit lifted itself, and he looked grimly into 
the eye of the storm. The cold, the storm, the 
hunger, he would face them all down, and win out 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 13 

yet. Lowering his head, and pulling a flap of his 
blanket coat across his mouth to make breathing 
easier, he plunged straight forward with what 
seemed like a new lease of vigour. 

Had the woods been near, or had he taken note 
of the weather in time, Pete would have made for 
the shelter of the forest at once. But he knew 
that, when last he looked, the track of the herd had 
been straight down the middle of the ever-widening 
barren. By now he must be a good two miles from 
the nearest cover; and he knew well enough that, 
in the bewilderment of the storm, which blunted 
even such woodcraft as his, and blurred not only 
his vision, but every other sense as well, he could 
never find his way. His only hope was to keep to 
the trail of the caribou. The beasts would either lie 
down or circle to the woods. In such a storm as 
this, as he knew well enough, no animal but man 
himself could hunt, or follow up the trail. There was 
no one but man who could confront such a storm 
undaunted. The caribou would forget both their 
cunning and the knowledge that they were being 
hunted. He would come upon them, or they 
would lead him to shelter. With an obstinate 
pride in his superiority to the other creatures of the 
wilderness, he scowled defiantly at the storm, and 
because he was overwrought with hunger and 
fatigue, he muttered to himself as he went, cursing 
the elements that assailed him so relentlessly. 


14 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


For hours he floundered on doggedly, keeping 
the trail by feeling rather than by sight, so thick were 
the cutting swirls of snow. As the drift heaped 
denser and denser about his legs, the terrible 

effort, so long sustained, began to tell on him, till his 
progress became only a snail’s pace. Little by little, 
in the obstinate effort to conserve strength and 

vitality, his faculties all withdrew into themselves, 
and concentrated themselves upon the one purpose 
— to keep going onward. He began to feel the lure 
of just giving up. He began to think of the warmth 
and rest he could get, the release from the mad 

chaos of the wind, by the simple expedient of bur- 
rowing deep into the deep snow. He knew well 

enough that simple trick of the partridge, when frost 
and storm grow too ferocious for it. But his wiser 
. spirit would not let him delude himself. Had he 

had a full stomach, and food in his pockets, he might, 
perhaps, safely have emulated this cunning trick 
of the partridge. But now, starving, weary, his 
vitality at the last ebb, he knew that if he should 
yield to the lure of the snow, he would be seen no 

more till the spring sun should reveal him, a thing 

of horror to the returning vireos and blackbirds, on 
the open, greening face of the barren. No, he 

would not burrow to. escape the wind. He laughed 
aloud as he thought upon the madness of it; and 
went butting and plunging on into the storm, in- 
domitable. 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 15 

Suddenly, however, he stopped short, with a great 
sinking at his heart. He felt cautiously this way 
and that, first with his feet, fumbling through the 
deep snow, and then with his hands. At last he 
turned his back abruptly to the wind, cowered down 
with his head between his arms to shut out the devil- 
ish whistling and whining, and tried to think how 
or when it had happened. He had lost the trail of 
the herd ! 

All his faculties stung to keen wakefulness by 
this appalling knowledge, he understood how it 
happened, but not where. The drifts had filled the 
trail, till it was utterly blotted off the face of the 
plain; then he had kept straight on, guided by the 
pressure of the wind. But the caribou, meanwhile, 
had swerved, and moved off in another direction. 
Which direction? He had to acknowledge to him- 
self that he had no clue to judge by, so whimsical 
were these antlered vagrants of the barren. Well, 
he thought doggedly, let them go! He would get 
along without them. Staggering to his feet, he 
faced the gale again, and thought hard, striving to 
remember what the direction of the wind had been 
when last he observed it, and at the same time to 
recall the lay of the heavy-timbered forest that skirted 
this barren on two sides. 

At length he made up his mind where the near- 
est point of woods must be. He saw it in his mind’s 
eye, a great promontory of black firs jutting out 


1 6 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

into the waste. He turned, calculating warily, 
till the wind came whipping full upon his left cheek. 
Sure that he was now facing his one possible refuge, 
he again struggled forward. And as he went, he 
pictured to himself the whole caribou herd, now 
half foundered in the drift, labouring toward the same 
retreat. Once more, crushing back hunger and 
faintness, he summoned up his spirit, and vowed 
that if the beasts could fight their way to cover, he 
could. Then his woodcraft should force the forest 
to render him something in the way of food that would 
suffice to keep life in his veins. 

For perhaps half an hour this defiant and un- 
vanquishable spirit kept Pete Noel going. But 
as the brief northern day began to wane, and a 
shadow to darken behind the thick, white gloom of 
the storm, his forces, his tough, corded muscles 
and his tempered nerves, again began to falter. 
He caught himself stumbling, and seeking excuse 
for delay in getting up. In spite of every effort of 
his will, he saw visions — thick, protecting woods 
close at one side or the other, or a snug log camp, 
half buried in the drifts, but with warm light flood- 
ing from its windows. Indignantly he would shake 
himself back into sanity, and the delectable visions 
would vanish. But while they lasted they were con- 
fusing, and presently when he aroused himself from 
one that was of particularly heart-breaking vividness, 
he found that he had let his rifle drop! It was gone 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 17 

hopelessly. The shock steadied him for some minutes. 
Well, he had his knife. After all, that was the more 
important of the two. He ploughed onward, once 
more keenly awake, and grappling with his fate. 

The shadows thickened rapidly; and at last, 
bending with the insane riot of the storm, began to 
make strange, monstrous shapes. Unravelling these 
illusions, and exorcising them, kept Pete Noel 
occupied. But suddenly one of these monstrous 
shapes neglected to vanish. He was just about to 
throw himself upon it, in half delirious antagonism, 
when it lurched upward with a snort, and struggled 
away from him. In an instant Pete was alive in 
every faculty, stung with an ecstasy of hope. Leap- 
ing, floundering, squirming, he followed, open knife 
in hand. Again and yet again the foundered beast, a 
big caribou bull, buried halfway up the flank, eluded 
him. Then, as his savage scramble at last over- 
took it, the bull managed to turn half about, and 
thrust him violently in the left shoulder with an antler- 
point. Unheeding the hurt, Noel clutched the antler 
with his left hand, and forced it inexorably back. 
The next moment his knife was drawn with practised 
skill across the beast’s throat. 

Like most of our eastern woodsmen, Pete Noel 
was even finicky about his food, and took all his 
meat cooked to a brown. He loathed underdone 
flesh. Now, however, he was an elemental creature, 
battling with the elements for his life. And he 


1 8 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


knew, moreover, that of all possible restoratives, 
the best was at his hand. He drove his blade again, 
this time to the bull’s heart. As the wild life sighed 
itself out, and vanished, Pete crouched down like 
an animal, and drank the warm, red fluid streaming 
from the victim’s throat. As he did so, the ebbed 
tide of warmth, power, and mastery flooded back 
into his own veins. He drank his fill; then, burrow- 
ing half beneath the massive body, he lay down close 
against it to rest and consider. 

Assured now of food to sustain him on the journey, 
assured of his own ability to master all other ob- 
stacles that might seek to withstand him, Pete 
Noel made up his mind to sleep, wrapping himself 
in his blankets under the shelter of the dead bull. 
Then the old hunter’s instinct began to stir. All 
about him, in every momentary lull of the wind, 
were snortings and heavy breathings. He had 
wandered into the midst of the exhausted herd. 
Here was a chance to recoup himself, in some small 
part, for the loss of his cabin and supplies. He could 
kill a few of the helpless animals, hide them in the 
snow, and take the bearings of the spot as soon as the 
weather cleared. By and by he could get a team 
from the nearest settlement, and haul out the frozen 
meat for private sale when the game warden chanced 
to have his eyes shut. 

Getting out his knife again, he crept stealthily 
toward the nearest heavy breathing. Before he 


p- 



- 'HAM’S 


?/T) 


“ One of these monstrous shapes neglected to vanish.” 










THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 


19 


could detect the beast in that tumultuous gloom, he 
was upon it. His outstretched left hand fell upon 
a wildly heaving flank. The frightened animal 
arose with a gasping snort, and tried to escape; 
but, utterly exhausted, it sank down again almost 
immediately, resigned to this unknown doom which 
stole upon it out of the tempest and the dark. 
Pete’s hand was on it again the moment it was 
still. He felt it quiver and shrink beneath his touch. 
Instinctively he began to stroke and rub the stiff 
hair as he slipped his treacherous hand forward 
along the heaving flank. The heavings grew quieter, 
the frightened snortings ceased. The exhausted 
animal seemed to feel a reassurance in that strong, 
quiet touch. 

When Pete’s hand had reached the unresisting 
beast’s neck, he began to feel a qualm of misgiving. 
His knife was in the other hand, ready for use there 
in the howling dark; but somehow he could not at 
once bring himself to use it. It would be a betrayal. 
Yet he had suffered a grievous loss, and here, given 
into his grasp by fate, was the compensation. He 
hesitated, arguing with himself impatiently. But 
even as he did so, he kept stroking that firm, warm, 
living neck; and through the contact there in the 
savage darkness, a sympathy passed between the 
man and the beast. He could not help it. The 
poor beasts and he were in the same predicament, 
together holding the battlements of life against the 


20 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


blind and brutal madness of storm. Moreover, the 
herd had saved him. The debt was on his side. 
The caress which had been so traitorous grew honest 
and kind. With a shamefaced grin Pete shut his 
knife, and slipped it back into his pocket. 

With both hands, now, he stroked the tranquil 
caribou, rubbing it behind the ears and at the base 
of the antlers, which seemed to give it satisfaction. 
Once when his hand strayed down the long muzzle, 
the animal gave a terrified start and snort at the 
dreaded man smell so violently invading its nostrils. 
But Pete kept on soothingly and' firmly; and again 
the beast grew calm. At length Pete decided that his 
best place for the night, or until the storm should 
lift, would be by the warmth of this imprisoned and 
peaceable animal. Digging down into the snow 
beyond the clutches of the wind, he rolled himself 
in his blankets, crouched close against the caribou’s 
flank, and went confidently to sleep. 

Aware of living companionship, Noel slept soundly 
through the clamour of the storm. At last a move- 
ment against his side disturbed him. He woke to 
feel that his strange bedfellow had struggled up and 
withdrawn. The storm was over. The sky above 
his upturned face was sharp with stars. All about 
him was laboured movement, with heavy shuffling, 
coughing, and snorting. Forgetful of their custom- 
ary noiselessness, the caribou were breaking gladly 
from their imprisonment. Presently Pete was alone. 


THE VAGRANTS OF THE BARREN 21 


The cold was still and of snapping intensity; but 
he, deep in his hollow, and wrapped in his blankets, 
was warm. Still drowsy, he muffled his face and 
went to sleep again for another hour. 

When he roused himself a second time he was 
wide awake and refreshed. It was just past the 
edge of dawn. The cold gripped like a vice. Faint 
mystic hues seemed frozen for ever into the ineffable 
crystal of the air. Pete stood up, and looked east- 
ward along the tumbled trail of the herd. Not half a 
mile away stood the forest, black and vast, the trail 
leading straight into it. Then, a little farther down 
toward the right he saw something that made his 
heart leap exultantly. Rising straight up, a laven- 
der and silver lily against the pallid saffron of the 
east, soared a slender smoke. That smoke, his trained 
eyes told him, came from a camp chimney; and he 
realized that the lumbermen had moved up to him 
from the far-off head of the Ottanoonsis. 


MacPhairrson’s Happy Family 
I 

I T was over a little footbridge one had to pass to 
visit MacPhairrson and his family, a little, 
lofty, curiously constructed footbridge, spanning a 
narrow but very furious torrent. At the middle of 
the bridge was a gate — or, rather, a door — of close 
and strong wire mesh; and at this point, door and 
bridge together were encircled by a chevaux-de-frise 
of woodwork with sharp, radiating points of heavy 
telegraph wire. With the gate shut, nothing less 
than a pair of wings in good working order could 
carry one over to the steep little island in mid- 
torrent which was MacPhairrson’s home and 

citadel. 

Carried caressingly in the hollow of his left arm, the 
Boy held a brown burlap bag, which, wriggled vio- 
lently at times and had to be soothed into quiescence. 
When the Boy arrived at the door in the bridge, 
which he found locked, he was met by two strange 


22 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 23 

hosts, who peered at him wisely through the meshes 
of the door. One of these was a large black and tan 
dog, with the long body, wavy hair, drooping silken 
ears, and richly feathered tail of a Gordon setter, 
most grotesquely supported, at a height of not more 
than eight inches from the ground, by the little 
bow-legs of a dachshund. This freakish and sinister- 
looking animal gazed at the visitor with eyes of 
sagacious welcome, tongue hanging amiably half out, 
and tail gently waving. He approved of this partic- 
ular Boy, though boys in general he regarded as 
nuisances to be tolerated rather than encouraged. 
The other host, standing close beside the dog as if on 
guard, and scrutinizing the visitor with little, pale, 
shrewdly non-committal eyes, was a half-grown black 
and white pig. 

Through the gate the Boy murmured familiar 
greetings to its warders while he pulled a wooden 
handle which set an old brown cow-bell above the 
door jangling hoarsely. The summer air was full 
to brimming over with sound — with the roar of the 
furious little torrent beneath, with the thunder of 
the sheet of cream and amber water falling over the 
face of the dam some fifty yards above, with the 
hiss and shriek of the saws in the big sawmill perched 
beside the dam. Yet through all the interwoven 
tissue of noise the note of the cow-bell made itself 
heard in the cabin. From behind the cabin arose a 
sonorous cry of hong-ka , honk-a-honk , and the snaky 


24 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


black head of a big Canada goose appeared in- 
quiringly around the corner. On one end of the 
hewn log which served as doorstep a preternaturally 
large and fat woodchuck sat bolt upright and stared 
to see who was coming. A red fox, which had been 
curled up asleep under MacPhairrson’s one rose 
bush, awoke, and superciliously withdrew to the 
other side of the island, out of sight, disapproving 
of all visitors on principle. From the shade of a 
thick spruce bush near the bridge-end a moose calf 
lumbered lazily to her feet, and stood staring, her 
head low down and her big ears waving in sleepy 
interrogation. From within the cabin came a 
series of harsh screeches mixed with discordant 
laughter and cries of “ Ebenezer ! Ebenezer ! Oh, 
by Gee! Hullo!” Then the cabin door swung 
wide, and in the doorway appeared MacPhairrson, 
leaning on his crutches, a green parrot on his 
shoulder, and beside his crippled feet two big white 
cats. 

MacPhairrson, the parrot, and the cats, all to- 
gether stared hard at the door on the bridge, striving 
to make out through the meshes who the visitor 
might be. The parrot, scrutinizing fiercely with her 
sinister black and orange eyes, was the first to dis- 
cover. She proclaimed at once her discovery and 
her approval by screeching, “ Boy ! Boy ! Oh, by 
Gee! Hullo!” and clambering head-first down the 
front of MacPhairrson’s coat. As MacPhairrson 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 25 


hobbled hastily forward to admit the welcome guest, 
the parrot, reaching out with beak and claw, trans- 
ferred herself to the moving crutch, whence she made 
a futile snap at one of the white cats. Foiled in 
this amiable attempt, she climbed hurriedly up the 
crutch again and resumed MacPhairrson’s shoulder, 
in time to greet the Boy’s entrance with a cordial 
“Oh, by Gee! Hullo!” 

MacPhairrson (he spelled his name scrupulously 
MacPherson, but, like all the other dwellers in the 
Settlement, pronounced it MacPhairrson, with a 
punctilious rolling of the r) was an old lumberman. 
Rheumatism, brought on by years of toiling thigh- 
deep in the icy waters when the logs were running in 
the freshets, had gripped him so relentlessly that one 
of his legs was twisted to almost utter uselessness. 
With his crutches, however, he could get about after 
his fashion; and being handy with his fingers and 
versatile of wit, he managed to make a living well 
enough at the little odd jobs of mechanical repairing 
which the Settlement folk, and the mill hands in 
particular, brought to his cabin. His cabin, which 
was practically a citadel, stood on a steep cone of 
rock, upthrust from the bed of the wild little river 
which worked the mill. On the summit of a rock 
a few square rods of soil gave room for the cabin, half 
a dozen bushes, and some sandy, sun-warmed turf. 
In this retreat, within fifty yards of the busy mill, 
but fenced about by the foaming torrent and quite 


26 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


inaccessible except by the footbridge, MacPhairrson 
lived with the motley group of companions which 
men called his Happy Family. 

Happy, no doubt, they were, in spite of the strait 
confines of their prison, for MacPhairrson ruled 
them by the joint forces of authority and love. He 
had, moreover, the mystic understanding which is 
essential if one would be really intimate with the 
kindreds we carelessly call dumb. So it was that he 
achieved a fair degree of concord in his Family. 
All the creatures were amiable towards him, because 
they loved him; and because they wholesomely 
feared him, they were amiable in the main towards 
each other. There were certain members of the 
Family who might be described as perennial. They 
were of the nature of established institutions. Such 
were Stumpy, the freak-legged dachshund-setter; 
James Edward, the wild gander; Butters, the 
woodchuck; Melindy and Jim, the two white cats; 
Bones, the brown owl, who sat all day on the edge of 
a box in the darkest corner of the cabin; and 
Ananias-and-Sapphira, the green parrot, so named, 
as MacPhairrson was wont to explain, because she 
was so human and he never could quite make her 
out. Ebenezer, the pig, was still too young to be 
promoted to permanence; but he had already 
shown such character, intelligence, and self-respect- 
ing individuality that MacPhairrson had vowed he 
should never deteriorate into pork. Ebenezer should 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 27 

stay, even though he should grow so big as to be 
inconvenient. 

But with Susan, the moose calf, and Carrots, the 
unsociable young fox, it was different. MacPhairr- 
son realized that when Susan should come to her full 
heritage of stature, he would hardly have room for 
her on the island. He would then send to the Game 
Commissioner at Fredericton for a permit, and 
sell the good soul to the agent for some Zoological 
Garden, where she would be appreciated and cared 
for. As for Carrots, his conduct was irreproachable, 
absolutely without blot or blemish, but MacPhairr- 
son knew that he was quite unregenerate at heart. 
The astute little beast understood well enough the 
fundamental law of the Family, “Live and let 
live,” and he knew that if he should break that law, 
doom would descend upon him in an eye-wink. But 
into his narrowed, inscrutable eyes, as he lay with 
muzzle on dainty, outstretched black paws and 
watched the movements of James Edward, the 
gander, or Butters, the fat woodchuck, a savage 
glint would come, which MacPhairrson unerringly 
interpreted. Moreover, while his demeanour was 
impeccable, his reserve was impenetrable, and 
even the tolerant and kindly MacPhairrson could 
find nothing in him to love. The decree, therefore, 
had gone forth; that is, it had been announced by 
MacPhairrson himself, and apparently approved 
by the ever attentive Stumpy and Ebenezer, that 


28 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


Carrots should be sold into exile at the very first op- 
portunity. 

When the Boy came through the little bridge 
gate, the greetings between him and MacPhairrson 
were brief and quiet. They were fellows both in the 
taciturn brotherhood of the woods. To Stumpy and 
Ebenezer, who nosed affectionately at his legs, he 
paid no attention beyond a careless touch of caress. 
Even to Ananias-and-Sapphira, who had hurriedly 
clambered from MacPhairrson’ s shoulder to his 
and begun softly nipping at his ear with her dreaded 
beak, he gave no heed whatever. He knew that the 
evil-tempered bird loved him as she loved his master 
and would be scrupulously careful not to pinch too 
hard. 

As the little procession moved gravely and silently 
up from the bridge to the cabin, their silence was in 
no way conspicuous, for the whole air throbbed with 
the rising and falling shriek of the saws, the tramp- 
ling of the falls, and the obscurely rhythmic rush of 
the torrent around the island base. They were 
presently joined by Susan, shambling on her un- 
gainly legs, wagging her big ears, and stretching out 
her long, ugly, flexible, overhanging nose to sniff 
inquiringly at the Boy’s jacket. A comparatively 
new member of MacPhairrson’ s family, she was still 
full of curiosity about every one and everything, 
and obviously considered it her mission in life 
to acquire knowledge. It was her firm convic- 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 29 

tion that the only way to know a thing was to 
smell it. 

A few steps from the door James Edward, the 
wild gander, came forward with dignity, slightly 
bowing his long, graceful black neck and narrow 
snaky head as he moved. Had the Boy been a 
stranger, he would now have met the first touch of 
hostility. Not all MacPhairrson’s manifest favour 
would have prevented the uncompromising and 
dauntless gander from greeting the visitor with a 
savage hiss and uplifted wings of defiance. But 
towards the Boy, whom he knew well, his dark, 
sagacious eye expressed only tolerance, which from 
him was no small condescension. 

On the doorstep, as austerely ungracious in his 
welcome as James Edward himself, sat Butters, 
the woodchuck, nursing some secret grudge against 
the world in general, or, possibly, against Ananias- 
and-Sapphira in particular, with whom he was on 
terms of vigilant neutrality. When the procession 
approached, he forsook the doorstep, turned his fat, 
brown back upon the visitor, and became en- 
grossed in gnawing a big cabbage stalk. He was 
afraid that if he should seem good-natured and 
friendly, he might be called upon to show off soms of 
the tricks which .MacPhairrson, with inexhaustible 
patience, had taught him. He was not going to 
turn somersaults, or roll over backward, or walk 
like a dancing bear, for any Boy alive ! 


30 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


This ill humour of Butters, however, attracted no 
notice. It was accepted by both MacPhairrson and 
his visitor as a thing of course. Moreover, there were 
matters of more moment afoot. That lively, squirm- 
ing bag which the Boy carried so carefully in the 
hollow of his left arm was exciting the old woods- 
man’s curiosity. The lumbermen and mill hands, as 
well as the farmer-folk of the Settlement for miles 
about, were given to bringing MacPhairrson all kinds 
of wild creatures as candidates for admission to his 
Happy Family. So whenever any one came with 
something alive in a bag, MacPhairrson would regard 
the bag with that hopeful and eager anticipation 
with which a child regards its Christmas stocking. 

When the two had entered the cabin and seated 
themselves., the Boy in the big barrel chair by the 
window, and MacPhairrson on the edge of his bunk, 
not three feet away, the rest of the company gathered 
in a semicircle of expectation in the middle of the 
floor. That is, Stumpy and Ebenezer and the two 
white cats did so, their keen noses as well as their 
inquisitive eyes having been busied about the bundle. 
Even James Edward came a few steps inside the 
door, and with a fine assumption of unconcern kept 
himself in touch with the proceedings. Only Susan 
was really indifferent, lying down outside the door — 
Susan, and that big bunch of fluffy brown feathers 
on the barrel in the corner of the cabin. 

The air fairly thrilled with expectation as the boy 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 31 


took the wriggling bag on his knee and started to 
open it. The moment there was an opening, out 
came a sharp little black nose pushing and twisting 
eagerly for freedom. The nose was followed in an 
instant by a pair of dark, intelligent, mischievous 
eyes. Then a long-tailed young raccoon squirmed 
forth, clambered up to the Boy’s shoulder, and 
turned to eye the assemblage with bright defiance. 
Never before in his young life had he seen such a 
remarkable assemblage; which, after all, was not 
strange, as there was surely not another like it in the 
world. 

The new-comer’s reception, on the whole, was not 
unfriendly. The two white cats, to be sure, fluffed 
their tails a little, drew back from the circle, and 
went off to curl up in the sun and sleep off their aver- 
sion to a stranger. James Edward, too, his curiosity 
satisfied, haughtily withdrew. But Stumpy, as 
acknowledged dean of the Family, wagged his tail, 
hung out his pink tongue as far as it would go, and 
panted a welcome so obvious that a much less intelli- 
gent animal than the young raccoon could not have 
failed to understand it. Ebenezer was less demon- 
strative, but his little eyes twinkled with unmistak- 
able good-will. Ananias-and-Sapphira was extraor- 
dinarily interested. In a tremendous hurry she 
scrambled down MacPhairrson’s arm, down his 
leg, across the floor, and up the Boy’s trousers. The 
Boy was a little anxious. 


32 THE BACKWOODSMEN .. •: 

“Will she bite him?” he asked, preparing to de- 
fend his pet. 

“I reckon she won’t,” answered MacPhairrson, 
observing that the capricious bird’s plumage was not 
ruffled, but pressed down so hard and smooth and 
close to her body that she looked much less than her 
usual size. “Generally she ain’t ugly when she 
looks that way. But she’s powerful interested, I tell 
you ! ” 

The little raccoon was crouching on the Boy’s 
right shoulder. Ananias-and-Sapphira, using beak 
and claws, scrambled nimbly to the other shoulder. 
Then, reaching far around past the Boy’s face, she 
fixed the stranger piercingly with her unwinking 
gaze, and emitted an ear-splitting shriek of laughter. 
The little coon’s nerves were not prepared for such a 
strain. In his panic he fairly tumbled from his perch 
to the floor, and straightway fled for refuge to the 
broad back of the surprised and flattered pig. 

“The little critter’s all right!” declared Mac- 
Phairrson, when he and the Boy were done laughing. 
“ Ananias-an’-Sapphira won’t hurt him. She likes 
all the critters she kin bully an’ skeer. An’ Stumpy 
an’ that comical cuss of a Ebenezer, they be goin’ 
to look out fer him.” 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 33 


II 

About a week after this admission of the little 
raccoon to his Family, MacPhairrson met with an 
accident. Coming down the long, sloping platform 
of the mill, the point of one of his crutches caught 
in a crack, and he plunged headlong, striking his head 
on a link of heavy “ snaking” chain. He was 
picked up unconscious and carried to the nearest 
cabin. For several days his stupor was unbroken, 
and the doctor hardly expected him to pull through. 
Then he recovered consciousness — but he was no 
longer MacPhairrson. His mind was a sort of 
amiable blank. Fie had to be fed and cared for like a 
very young child. The doctor decided at last that 
there was some pressure of bone on the brain, and 
that operations quite beyond his skill would be 
required. At his suggestion a purse was made up 
among the mill hands and the Settlement folk, and 
MacPhairrson, smiling with infantile enjoyment, was 
packed off down river on the little tri-weekly steamer 
to the hospital in the city. 

As soon as it was known around the mill — which 
stood amidst its shanties a little apart from the 
Settlement — that MacPhairrson was to be laid up 
for a long time, the question arose: “ What’s to be- 
come of the Family?” It was morning when the 
accident happened, and in the afternoon the Boy 
had come up to look after the animals. After 


34 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


that, when the mill stopped work at sundown, there 
was a council held, amid the suddenly silent saws. 

“What’s to be done about the orphants?” was 
the way Jimmy Wright put the problem. 

Black Angus MacAllister, the Boss — so called to 
distinguish him from Red Angus, one of the gang of 
log-drivers — had his ideas already pretty well 
formed on the subject, and intended that his ideas 
should go. He did not really care much about any 
one else’s ideas except the Boy’s, which he respected 
as second only to those of MacPhairrson where the 
wild kindreds were concerned. Black Angus was a 
huge, big-handed, black-bearded, bull-voiced man, 
whose orders and imprecations made themselves 
heard above the most piercing crescendos of the saws. 
When his intolerant eyes fixed a man, what he had 
to say usually went, no matter what different views 
on the subject his hearer might secretly cling to. 
But he had a tender, somewhat sentimental streak 
in his character, which expressed itself in a fond- 
ness for all animals. The horses and oxen working 
around the mill were all well cared for and showed it 
in their condition; and the Boss was always ready 
to beat a man half to death for some very slight ill- 
usage of an animal. 

“A man kin take keer o’ himself,” he would say in 
explanation, “an’ the dumb critters can’t. It’s our 
place to take keer of ’em.” 

“Boys,” said he, his great voice not yet toned 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 35 

down to the quiet, “I say, let’s divvy up the critters 
among us, jest us mill hands an’ the Boy here, an’ 
look out fer ’em the best we know how till MacPhairr- 
son gits well !” 

He looked interrogatively at the Boy, and the 
Boy, proud of the importance thus attached to him, 
answered modestly — 

“That’s just what I was hoping you’d suggest, Mr. 
MacAllister. You know, of course, they can’t stay 
on together there alone. They wouldn’t be a Happy 
Family long. They’d get to fighting in no time, 
and about half of ’em would get killed quick.” 

There was a moment of deliberative silence. No 
smoking was allowed in the mill, but the hands all 
chewed. Jimmy Wright, marking the bright face of 
a freshly sawed deal about eight feet away, spat 
unerringly upon its exact centre, then giving a 
hitch to his trousers, he remarked — 

“Let the Boss an’ the Boy settle it. They onder- 
stand it the best.” 

“That’s right, Jimmy! We’ll fix it!” said Black 
Angus. “Now, for mine, I’ve got a fancy for the 
parrot an’ the pig. That there Ananias-and-Sap- 
phira, she’s a bird an’ no mistake. An’ the pig — 
MacPhairrson calls him Ebenezer — he’s that smart 
ye’d jest kill yerself laffin’ to see him. An’, more- 
over, he’s that clean — he’s clean as a lady. I’d 
like to have them two around my shanty. An’ I’m 
ready to take one more if necessary.” 


36 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


“Then I think you’ll have to take the coon too, 
Mr. MacAllister,” said the Boy. “He and Ebenezer 
just love each other, an’ they wouldn’t be happy 
separated.” 

“All right. The coon fer me!” responded the 
Boss. “Which of the critters will you take yer- 
self ?” 

“I’ll wait and see which the rest of the boys want,” 
replied the Boy. “I like them all, and they all know 
me pretty well. I’ll take what’s left.” 

“Well, then,” said Jimmy Wright, “me for 
Susan. That blame moose calf’s the only one of the 
critters that I could ever git along with. She’s a 
kind of a fool, an’ seems to like me!” And he deco- 
rated the bright deal once more. 

“Me an’ my missus, we’ll be proud to take them 
two white cats!” put in grey old Billy Smith. 
“She sez, sez she, they be the han’somest cats 
in two counties. Mebbe they won’t be so lonesome 
with us as they’d be somewheres else, bein’s as our 
shanty’s so nigh MacPhairrson’s bridge they kin see 
for themselves all the time there ain’t no one on to 
the island any more!” 

“Stumpy’s not spoken for!” reminded the Boy. 
The dog was popular, and half a dozen volunteered 
for him at once. 

“Mike gits the dawg!” decided the Boss, to head 
off arguments. 

“Then I’ll take the big gander,” spoke up Baldy 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 37 

Pallen, one of the disappointed applicants for 
Stumpy. “He knows as much as any dawg ever 
lived.” 

“Yes, I reckon he kin teach ye a heap, Baldy!” 
agreed the Boss. A laugh went round at Baldy’s 
expense. Then for a few seconds there were no 
more applications. 

“No one seems to want poor Butters and Bones!” 
laughed the Boy. “They’re neither of them what 
you’d call sociable. But Bones has his good points. 
He can see in the dark; and he’s a great one for 
minding his own business. Butters has a heap of 
sense; but he’s too cross to show it, except for Mac- 
Phairrson himself. Guess Fd better take them both, 
as I understand their infirmities.” 

“An’ ain’t there a young fox?” inquired the 
Boss. 

“Oh, Carrots; he can just stay on the island,” 
answered the Boy. “If some of you’ll throw him a 
bite to eat every day, he’ll be all right. He can’t get 
into any mischief. And he can’t get away. He 
stands on his dignity so, nobody’d get any fun out of 
having him!” 

These points decided, the council broke up and 
adjourned to MacPhairrson’s island, carrying several 
pieces of rope, a halter, and a couple of oat-bags. 
The members of the Family, vaguely upset over the 
long absence of their master, nearly all came down 
to the bridge in their curiosity to see who was coming 


38 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


— all, indeed, but the fox, who slunk off behind the 
cabin; Butters, who retired to his box; and Bones, 
who remained scornfully indifferent in his corner. 
The rest eyed the crowd uneasily, but were reas- 
sured by seeing the Boy with them. In fact, they 
all crowded around him, as close as they could, ex- 
cept Stumpy, who went about greeting his acquaint- 
ances, and James Edward, who drew back with lifted 
wings and a haughty hiss, resolved to suffer no 
familiarities. 

Jimmy Wright made the first move. He had 
cunningly brought some salt in his pocket. With 
the casual remark that he wasn’t going to put it on 
her tail, he offered a handful to the non-committal 
Susan. The ungainly creature blew most of it 
away with a windy snort, then changed her mind and 
greedily licked up the few remaining grains. De- 
ciding that Jimmy was an agreeable person with 
advantages, she allowed him to slip the halter on her 
neck and lead her unprotesting over the bridge. 

Then Black Angus made overtures to Ebenezer, 
who carried the little raccoon on his back. Ebenezer 
received them with a mixture of dignity and doubt, 
but refused to stir an inch from the Boy’s side. Black 
Angus scratched his head in perplexity. 

“ ’Tain’t no use tryn’ to lead him, I reckon!” he 
muttered. 

“No, you’ll have to carry him in your arms, Mr. 
MacAllister,” laughed the Boy. “Good thing he 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 39 


ain’t very big yet. But here, take Ananias-and- 
Sapphira first. If she’ll be friends with you, that’ll 
mean a lot to Ebenezer.” And he deftly transferred 
the parrot from his own shoulder, where she had 
taken refuge at once on his arrival, to the lofty shoulder 
of the Boss. 

The bird was disconcerted for an instant. She 
“slicked” down her feathers till she looked small 
and demure, and stretched herself far out as if to 
try a jump for her old perch. But, one wing being 
clipped, she did not dare the attempt. She had had 
enough experience of those sickening, flopping 
somersaults which took the place of flight when only 
one wing was in commission. Turning from the 
Boy, she eyed MacAllister’s nose with her evil, un- 
winking stare. Possibly she intended to bite it. 
But at this moment MacAllister reached up his huge 
hand fearlessly to stroke her head, just as fearlessly 
as if she were not armed with a beak that could 
bite through a boot. Greatly impressed by this 
daring, she gurgled in her throat, and took the great 
thumb delicately between her mandibles with a 
daintiness that would not have marred a rose-petal. 
Yes, she concluded at once, this was a man after her 
own heart, with a smell to his hands like that of Mac- 
Phairrson himself. Dropping the thumb with a little 
scream of satisfaction, she sidled briskly up and down 
MacAllister’s shoulder, making herself quite at 
home. 


40 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


“My, but she’s taken a shine to you, Mr. MacAllis- 
ter!” exclaimed the Boy. “I never saw her do like 
that before.” 

The Boss grinned proudly. 

“ Ananias-an’-Sapphira be of the female sect, 
b ain’t she?” inquired Baldy Pallen, with a sly look 
over the company. 

“Sure, she’s a she !” replied the Boy. “MacPhairr- 
son says so !” 

“That accounts fer it!” said Baldy. “It’s a way 
all shes have with the Boss. Jest look at her now !” 

“Now for Ebenezer!” interrupted the Boss, to 
change the subject. “ You better hand him to me, 
an’ maybe he’ll take it as an introduction.” 

Solemnly the Boy stooped, shoving the little 
raccoon aside, and picked the pig up in his arms. 
Ebenezer was amazed, having never before been 
treated as a lap-dog, but he made no resistance be- 
yond stiffening out all his legs in a way that made 
him most awkward to handle. Placed in the Boss’s 
great arms, he lifted his snout straight up in the 
air and emitted one shrill squeal; but the sight of 
Ananias-and-Sapphira, perched coolly beneath his 
captor’s ear, in a measure reassured him, and he 
made no further protest. He could not, however, 
appear reconciled to the inexplicable and altogether 
undignified situation, so he held his snout rigidly as 
high aloft as he could and shut his little eyes tight, 
as if anticipating some further stroke of fate. 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 41 


Black Angus was satisfied so far. He felt that the 
tolerance of Ebenezer and the acceptance of Ananias- 
and-Sapphira added distinctly to his prestige. 

“Now for the little coon!” said he, jocularly. 
But the words were hardly out of his mouth when 
he felt sharp claws go up his leg with a rush, and the 
next instant the little raccoon was on his shoulder, 
reaching out its long, black nose to sniff solicitously 
at Ebenezer’ s legs and assure itself that everything 
was all right. 

“Jumping Jiminy! Oh, by Gee!” squealed An- 
anias-and-Sapphira, startled at the sudden onset, 
and nipped the intruder smartly on the leg till he 
squalled and whipped around to the other shoulder. 

“Now you’ve got all that’s coming to you, I guess, 
Mr. MacAllister,” laughed the Boy. 

“Then I reckon I’d better be lightin’ out fer home 
with it!” answered Black Angus, hugely elated. 
Turning gently, so as not to dislodge the passengers 
on his shoulder, he strode off over the bridge and up 
the sawdust-muffled street towards his clapboard 
cottage, Ebenezer’ s snout still held rigidly up in air, 
his eyes shut in heroic resignation, while Ananias- 
and-Sapphira, tremendously excited by this excur- 
sion into the outer world, kept shrieking at the top of 
her voice: “Ebenezer, Ebenezer, Ebenezer! Oh, by 
Gee! I want Pa!” 

As soon as the noisy and picturesque recessional of 
Black Angus had vanished, Baldy Pallen set out 


42 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


confidently to capture the wild gander, James 
Edward. He seemed to expect to tuck him under 
his arm and walk off with him at his ease. Observ- 
ing this, the Boy looked around with a solemn wink. 
Old Billy Smith and the half-dozen onlookers who 
had no responsibility in the affair grinned and 
waited. As Baldy approached, holding out a hand 
of placation, and “chucking” persuasively as if he 
thought James Edward was a hen, the latter reared 
his snaky black head and stared in haughty sur- 
prise. Then he gave vent to a strident hiss of 
warning. Could it be possible that this impudent 
stranger contemplated meddling with him? Yes, 
plainly it was possible. It was certain, in fact. 
The instant he realized this, James Edward lowered 
his long neck, darted it out parallel with the ground, 
spread his splendid wings, and rushed at Baldy’s 
legs with a hiss like escaping steam. Baldy was 
startled and bewildered. His legs tweaked savagely 
by the bird’s strong, hard bill, and thumped pain- 
fully by the great, battering, windy wings, he sput- 
tered: “Jumpin’ Judas!” in an embarrassed tone, 
and retreated behind Billy Smith and the Boy. 

A roar of delighted laughter arose as James 
Edward backed away in haughty triumph, and 
strolled carelessly up towards the cabin. There 
were crys of “Ketch him quick, Baldy!” “Try a 
leetle coaxin’!” “Don’t be so rough with the 
gosling, Baldy!” “Jest whistle to him, an’ he’ll 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 43 


folly ye!” But, ignoring these pleasantries, Baldy 
rubbed his legs and turned to the Boy for guidance. 

“Are you sure you want him now?” inquired the 
latter. 

“’Course I want him!” returned Baldy with a 
sheepish grin. “I’ll coax him round an’ make friends 
with him all right when I git him home. But how’m 
I goin’ to git him? I’m af eared o’ hurtin’ him, he 
seems that delicate, and his feelin’s so sensitive 
like!” 

“We’ll have to surround him, kind of. Just 
wait, boys!” said the Boy. And running into the 
cabin, past the deliberate James Edward, he reap- 
peared with a heavy blanket. 

The great gander eyed his approach with con- 
temptuous indifference. He had come to regard the 
Boy as quite harmless. When, therefore, the en- 
cumbering folds of the blanket descended, it was 
too late to resist. In a moment he was rolled over in 
the dark, bundled securely, picked up, and igno- 
miniously tucked under Baldy Pallen’s arm. 

“Now you’ve got him, don’t let go o’ him!” 
admonished the Boy, and amid encouraging jeers 
Baldy departed, carrying the bundle victoriously. 
He had not more than crossed the bridge, however, 
when the watchers on the island saw a slender black 
head wriggle out from one end of the bundle, dart 
upward behind his left arm, and seize the man 
viciously by the ear. With a yell Baldy grabbed the 


44 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


head, and held it securely in his great fist till the 
Boy ran to his rescue. When James Edward’s bill 
was removed from Baldy’s bleeding ear, his darting, 
furious head tucked back into the blanket, the Boy 
said — 

“Now, Baldy, that was just your own fault for 
not keeping tight hold. You can’t blame James 
Edward for biting you!” 

“Sure, no!” responded Baldy, cheerfully. “I 
don’t blame him a mite. I brag on the spunk of him. 
Him an’ me’ll git on all right.” 

James Edward gone, the excitement was over. 
The Boy picked up the two big white cats, Melindy 
and Jim, and placed them in the arms of old Billy 
Smith, where they settled themselves, looking about 
with an air of sleepy wisdom. From smallest kitten- 
hood the smell of a homespun shirt had stood to 
them for every kind of gentleness and shelter, so 
they saw no reason to find fault with the arms of 
Billy Smith. By this time old Butters, the wood- 
chuck, disturbed at the scattering of the Family, had 
retired in a huff to the depths of his little barrel by 
the doorstep. The Boy clapped an oat-bag over the 
end of the barrel, and tied it down. Then he went 
into the cabin and slipped another bag over the head 
of the unsuspecting Bones, who fluffed all his feathers 
and snapped his fierce beak like castanets. In two 
minutes he was tied up so that he could neither bite 
nor claw. 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 45 

“That was slick!” remarked Red Angus, who 
had hitherto taken no part in the proceedings. He 
and the rest of the hands had followed in hope of 
further excitement. 

“Well, then, Angus, will you help me home? Will 
you take the barrel, and see that Butters doesn’t gnaw 
out on the way?” 

Red Angus picked up the barrel and carried it 
carefully in front of him, head up, that the sly old 
woodchuck might not steal a march on him. Then 
the Boy picked up Bones in his oat-bag, and closed 
the cabin door. As the party left the island with 
loud tramping of feet on the little bridge, the young 
fox crept slyly from behind the cabin, and eyed them 
through cunningly narrowed slits of eyes. At last 
he was going to have the island all to himself; and 
he set himself to dig a burrow directly under the 
doorstep, where that meddlesome MacPhairrson had 
never permitted him to dig. 

Ill 

It was in the green zenith of June when MacPhairr- 
son went away. When he returned, hobbling up 
with his tiny bundle, the backwoods world was 
rioting in the scarlet and gold of young October. 
He was quite cured. He felt singularly well. But 
a desperate loneliness saddened his home-coming. 
He knew his cabin would be just as he had left it, 


46 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


there on its steep little foam-ringed island; and he 
knew the Boy would be there, with the key, to admit 
him over the bridge and welcome him home. But’ 
what would the island be without the Family? 
The Boy, doubtless, had done what he could. 
He had probably taken care of Stumpy, and per- 
haps of Ananias-and-Sapphira. But the rest of 
the Family must inevitably be scattered to the 
four winds. Tears came into his eyes as he thought 
of himself and Stumpy and the parrot, the poor 
lonely three, there amid the sleepless clamour of the 
rapids, lamenting their vanished comrades. A chill 
that was more than the approaching autumn twilight 
could account for settled upon his heart. 

Arriving at the little bridge, however, his heart 
warmed again, for there was the Boy waving at him, 
and hurrying down to the gate to let him in. And 
there at the Boy’s heels was Stumpy, sure enough. 
MacPhairrson shouted, and Stumpy, at the sound 
of the loud voice, went wild, trying to tear his way 
through the gate. When the gate opened, he had 
to brace himself against the frame, before he could 
grasp the Boy’s hand, so extravagant and over- 
whelming were the yelping Stumpy’s caresses. 
Gladly he suffered them, letting the excited dog 
lick his hands and even his face; for, after all, 
Stumpy was the best and dearest member of the 
Family. Then, to steady him, he gave him his 
bundle to carry up to the cabin, and proudly 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 47 

Stumpy trotted on ahead with it. MacPhairrson’s 
voice trembled as he tried to thank the Boy for 
bringing Stumpy back to him — trembled and 
choked. 

“I can’t help it!” he explained apologetically as 
soon as he got his voice again. “I love Stumpy 
best, of course! You kept the best fer me! But, 
Jiminy Christmas, Boy, how I miss the rest on 
’em!” 

“I didn’t keep Stumpy!” explained the Boy 
as the two went up the path. “It was Mike 
Sweeny took care of him for you. He brought him 
round this morning because he had to get off to the 
woods cruising. I took care of Bones — we’ll find 
him on his box inside — and of cross old Butters. 
Thunder, how Butters has missed you, MacPhairrson ! 
He’s bit me twice, just because I wasn’t you. There 
he is, poking his nose out of his barrel.” 

The old woodchuck thought he had heard 
MacPhairrson’s voice, but he was not sure. He 
came out and sat up on his fat haunches, 
his nostrils quivering with expectation. Then he 
caught sight of the familiar limping form. With 
a little squeal of joy he scurried forward and fell to 
clutching and clawing at his master’s legs till Mac- 
Phairrson picked him up. Whereupon he expressed 
his delight by striving to crowd his nose into Mac- 
Phairrson’s neck. At this moment the fox appeared 
from hiding behind the cabin, and sat up, with 


4 8 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


ears cocked shrewdly and head to one side, to take 
note of his master’s return. 

“Lord, how Carrots has growed!” exclaimed 
MacPhairrson, lovingly, and called him to come. 
But the fox yawned in his face, got up lazily, and 
trotted off to the other side of the island. Mac- 
Phairrson’s face fell. 

“He’s got no kind of a heart at all,” said the Boy, 
soothing his disappointment. 

“He ain’t no use to nobody,” said MacPhairrson. 
“I reckon we’d better let him go.” Then he hob- 
bled into the cabin to greet Bones, who ruffled up his 
feathers at his approach, but recognized him and 
submitted to being stroked. 

Presently MacPhairrson straightened up on his 
crutches, turned, and gulped down a lump in his 
throat. 

“I reckon we’ll be mighty contented here,” said 
he, “me an’ Stumpy, an’ Butters, an’ Bones. But 
I wisht as how I might git to have Ananias-an’-Sapphira 
back along with us. I’m goin’ to miss that there 
bird a lot, fer all she was so ridiculous an’ cantankerous. 
I s’pose, now, you don’t happen to know who’s got 
her, do you?” 

“I know she’s got a good home!” answered the 
Boy, truthfully. “But I don’t know that I could 
tell you just where she is!” 

At just this minute, however, there came a jangling 
of the gate bell, and screeches of — 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 49 

“Oh, by Gee! Jumpin’ Jiminy! Oh, Boy! I 
want Pa!” 

MacPhairrson’s gaunt and grizzled face grew 
radiant. Nimbly he hobbled to the door, to see the 
Boy already on the bridge, opening the gate. To 
his amazement, in strode Black Angus the Boss, 
with the bright green glitter of Ananias-and-Sapphira 
on his shoulder screeching varied profanities — and 
whom at his heels but Ebenezer and the little ring- 
tailed raccoon. In his excitement the old woods- 
man dropped one of his crutches. Therefore, in- 
stead of going to meet his visitors, he plumped down 

on the bench outside his door and just waited. A 

moment later the quaint procession arrived. Mac- 

Phairrson found Black Angus shaking him hugely by 
the hand, Ebenezer, much grown up, rooting at his 
knees with a happy little squeal, and Ananias-and- 
Sapphira, as of old, clambering excitedly up his 
shirt-front. 

“There, there, easy now, old pard,” he murmured 
to the pig, fondling the animal’s ears with one hand, 
while he gave the other to the bird, to be nibbled 
and nipped ecstatically, the raccoon meanwhile looking 
on with bright-eyed, non-committal interest. 

“Angus,” said the old woodsman presently, by 
way of an attempt at thanks, “ye’re a wonderful 
hand with the dumb critters — not that one could 
rightly call Ananias-an’-Sapphira dumb, o’ course 
— ’n’ I swear I couldn’t never have kep’ ’em 


50 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


lookin' so fine and slick all through the summer. I 
reckon ” 

But he never finished that reckoning. Down to 
his bridge was coming another and a larger proces- 
sion than that of Black Angus. First, and even now 
entering through the gate, he saw Jimmy Wright 
leading a lank young moose cow, whom he recognized 
as Susan. Close behind was old Billy Smith with 
the two white cats, Melindy and Jim, in his arms; 
and then Baldy Pallen, with a long blanket bundle 
under his arm. Behind them came the rest of the 
mill hands, their faces beaming welcome. Mac- 
Phairrson, shaking all over, with big tears in his 
eyes, reached for his fallen crutch and stood up. 
When the visitors arrived and gave him their hearty 
greetings, he could find no words to answer. Baldy 
laid his bundle gently on the ground and respectfully 
unrolled it. Out stepped the lordly James Edward 
and lifted head and wings with a troubled honk-ay 
honka. As soon as he saw MacPhairrson, he came up 
and stood close beside him, which was as much enthu- 
siasm as the haughty gander could bring himself 
to show. The cats meanwhile were rubbing and 
purring against their old master’s legs, while Susan 
sniffed at him with a noisy, approving snort. Mac- 
Phairrson’s throat, and then his whole face, began to 
work. How different was this home-coming from 
what he had expected! Here, wonder of wonders, 
was his beloved Family all gathered about him! 


MACPHAIRRSON’S HAPPY FAMILY 51 


How good the boys were! He must try to thank 
them all. Bracing himself with one crutch, he 
strove to express to them his immeasurable gratitude 
and gladness. In vain, for some seconds, he struggled 
to down the lump in his throat. Then, with a 
titanic effort, he blurted out: “Oh, hell, boys!” 
and sat down, and hid his wet eyes in Stumpy’s shaggy 
hair. 


On Big Lonely 


I T was no doubt partly pride, in having for once 
succeeded in evading her grandmother’s all-see- 
ing eye, that enabled Mandy Ann to carry, at a trot, a 
basket almost as big as herself — to carry it all the way 
down the hill to the river, without once stumbling or 
stopping to take breath. The basket was not only 
large, but uneasy, seeming to be troubled by internal 
convulsions, which made it tip and lurch in a way that 
from time to time threatened to upset Mandy Ann’s 
unstable equilibrium. But being a young person of 
character, she kept right on, ignoring the fact that 
the stones on the shore were very sharp to her little 
bare feet. 

At last she reached the sunshiny cove, with shoals 
of minnows flickering about its amber shallows, which 
was the goal of her flight. Here, tethered to a stake 
on the bank, lay the high-sided old bateau, which 
Mandy Ann had long coveted as a perfectly ideal 
play-house. Its high prow lightly aground, its stern 
afloat, it swung lazily in the occasional puffs of lazy 
air. Mandy Ann was only four years old, and her 


ON BIG LONELY 


53 


red cotton skirt just came to her dimpled, grimy 
little knees; but with that unfailing instinct of her 
sex she gathered up the skirt and clutched it securely 
between her breast and the rim of the basket. Then 
she stepped into the water, waded to the edge of the 
old bateau and climbed aboard. 

The old craft was quite dry inside, and filled with 
a clean, pungent scent of warm tar. Mandy Ann 
shook out her red skirt and her yellow curls, and 
set down the big covered basket on the bottom of 
the bateau. The basket continued to move tempes- 
tuously. 

“Oh, naughty! naughty!” she exclaimed, shak- 
ing her chubby finger at it. “Jest a minute, jest a 
teenty minute, an’ we’ll see!” 

Peering over the bow, Mandy Ann satisfied herself 
that the bateau, though its bottom grated on the 
pebbles, was completely surrounded by water. Then 
sitting down on the bottom, she assured herself that 
she was hidden by the boat’s high flaring sides from 
the sight of all interfering domestic eyes on shore. 
She felt sure that even the eyes of her grandmother, 
in the little grey cottage back on the green hill, could 
not reach her in this unguessed retreat. With a sigh 
of unutterable content she made her way back into 
the extreme stern of the bateau, lugging the tem- 
pestuous basket with her. Sitting down flat, she 
took the basket in her lap and loosened the cover, 
crooning softly as she did so. Instantly a whiskered, 


54 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


brown snub-nose, sniffing and twitching with inter- 
rogation, appeared at the edge. A round brown 
head, with little round ears and fearless bright dark 
eyes, immediately popped over the edge. With a 
squeak of satisfaction a fat young woodchuck, nearly 
full-grown, clambered forth and ran up on Mandy 
Ann’s shoulder. The bateau, under the influence 
of the sudden weight in the stern, floated clear of 
the gravel and swung softly at the end of its rope. 

Observing that the bateau was afloat, Mandy Ann 
was delighted. She felt doubly secure, • now, from 
pursuit. Pulling a muddy carrot from her pocket 
she held it up to the woodchuck, which was nuz- 
zling affectionately at her curls. But the smell of 
the fresh earth reminded the little animal of some- 
thing which he loved even better than Mandy Ann 
— even better, indeed, than a. juicy carrot. He longed 
to get away, for a little while, from the loving but 
sometimes too assiduous attention with which his 
little mistress surrounded him — to get away and 
burrow to his heart’s content in the cool brown 
earth, full of grass-roots. Ignoring the carrot, he 
clambered down in his soft, loose- jointed fashion, 
from Mandy Ann’s shoulder, and ran along the gun- 
wale to the bow. When he saw that he could not 
reach shore without getting into the water, which he 
loathed, he grumbled squeakingly, and kept bobbing 
his round head up and down, as if he contemplated 
making a jump for it. 


ON BIG LONELY 


55 


At these symptoms Mandy Ann, who had been 
eyeing him, called to him severely. “Naughty!” 
she cried. “Come back this very instant, sir! You’d 
jes’ go an’ tell Granny on me! Come right back 
to your muzzer this instant!” At the sound of her 
voice the little animal seemed to think better of his 
rashness. The flashing and rippling of the water 
daunted him. He returned to Mandy Ann’s side 
and fell to gnawing philosophically at the carrot which 
she thrust under his nose. 

This care removed, Mandy Ann took an irregular 
bundle out of the basket. It was tied up in a blue- 
and- white handkerchief. Untying it with extreme 
care, as if the contents were peculiarly precious, she 
displayed a collection of fragments of many-coloured 
glass and gay-painted china. Gloating happily over 
these treasures, which flashed like jewels in the sun, 
she began to sort them out and arrange them with 
care along the nearest thwart of the bateau. Mandy 
Ann was making what the children of the Settlement 
knew and esteemed as a “Chaney House.” There 
was keen rivalry among the children as to both loca- 
tion and furnishing of these admired creations; and 
to Mandy Ann’s daring imagination it had appeared 
that a “Chaney House” in the old bateau would be 
something surpassing dreams. 

For an hour or more Mandy Ann was utterly ab- 
sorbed in her enchanting task. So quiet she was 
over it that every now and then a yellow-bird or a 


56 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


fly-catcher would alight upon the edge of the bateau 
to bounce away again with a startled and indignant 
twitter. The woodchuck, having eaten his carrot, 
curled up in the sun and went to sleep. 

Mandy Ann’s collection was really a rich assort- 
ment of colour. Every piece in it was a treasure in 
her eyes. But much as she loved the bits of painted 
china, she loved the glass better. There were red 
bits, and green of many shades, and blue, yellow, 
amber, purple and opal. Each piece, before arrang- 
ing it in its allotted place on the thwart, she would 
lift to her eyes and survey the world through it. 
Some near tree-tops, and the blue sky piled with 
white fleeces of summer clouds, were all of the 
world she could see from her retreat; but viewed 
through different bits of glass these took on an in- 
finite variety of wonder and delight. So engrossed 
she was, it quite escaped her notice that the old bateau 
was less steady in its movements than it had been 
when first she boarded it. She did not even observe 
the fact that there were no longer any tree-tops in her 
fairy-tinted pictures. At last there sounded under 
the keel a strange gurgle, and the bateau gave a 
swinging lurch which sent half the treasures of the 
“ Chaney House” clattering upon the bottom or into 
Mandy Ann’s lap. The woodchuck woke up fright- 
ened and scrambled into the shelter of its mistress’s 
arms. 

Much surprised, Mandy Ann knelt upright and 


ON BIG LONELY 


57 ' 

looked out over the edge of the bateau. She was no 
longer in the little sheltered cove, but far out on the 
river. The shores, slipping smoothly and swiftly past, 
looked unfamiliar to her. Where she expected to 
see the scattered cottages of the Settlement, a huge 
bank, covered with trees, cut off the view. While 
she was so engrossed with her coloured glass, a puff of 
wind, catching the high sides of the bateau, had caused 
it to tug at its tether. The rope, carelessly fastened 
by some impatient boy, had slipped its hold; and the 
bateau had been swept smoothly out into the hurry- 
ing current. Half a mile below, the river rounded a 
woody point, and the drifting bateau was hidden 
from the sight of any one who might have hurried to 
recover it. 

At the moment, Mandy Ann was not frightened. 
Her blue eyes danced with excitement as she tossed 
back her tousled curls. The river, flowing swiftly 
but smoothly, flashed and rippled in the noon sun 
in a friendly fashion, and it was most interesting 
to see how fast the shores slipped by. There was 
no suggestion of danger; and probably, at the back 
of her little brain, Mandy Ann felt that the beautiful 
river, which she had always loved and never been 
allowed to play with, would bring her back to her 
Granny as gently and unexpectedly as it had carried 
her away. Meanwhile, she felt only the thrilling 
and utterly novel excitement of the situation. As 
the bateau swung in an occasional oily eddy she 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


58 

laughed gaily at the motion, and felt as proud as 
if she were doing it herself. And the woodchuck, 
which had been very nervous at first, feeling that 
something was wrong, was so reassured by its mis- 
tress’s evident satisfaction that it curled up again on 
the bottom and hastened to resume its slumber. 

In a little while the river curved again, sweeping 
back to its original course. Suddenly, in the dis- 
tance, the bright spire of the Settlement church 
came into view, and then the familiar cottages. 
Mandy Ann’s laughing face grew grave, as she saw 
how very, very far away they looked. They took 
on, also, from the distance, a certain strangeness 
which smote her heart. This wonderful adventure 
of hers ceased to have any charm for her. She 
wanted to go back at once. Then her grandmother’s 
little grey house on the slope came into view. Oh, 
how terribly little and queer and far away it looked. 
And it was getting farther and farther away every 
minute. A frightened cry of “Granny! Granny! 
Take me home!” broke from her lips. She stood 
up, and made her way hurriedly to the other end of 
the bateau, which, being upstream, was nearer home. 
As her weight reached the bow, putting it deeper 
into the grip of the current, the bateau slowly swung 
around till it headed the other way. Mandy Ann 
turned and hurried again to the point nearest home. 
Whereupon the bateau calmly repeated its discon- 
certing manoeuvre. All at once the whole truth of 


ON BIG LONELY 


59 


the situation burst upon Mandy Ann’s compre- 
hension. She was lost. She was being carried 
away so far that she would never, never get back. 
She was being swept out into the terrible wilds that 
she had heard stories about. Her knees gave away 
in her terror. Crouching, a little red tumbled heap, 
on the bottom of the bateau, she lifted up her voice 
in shrill wailings, which so frightened the woodchuck 
that he came and crept under her skirt. 

Below the Settlement the river ran for miles through 
a country of ever-deepening desolation, without 
cabin or clearing near its shores, till it emptied itself 
into the yet more desolate lake known as “Big 
Lonely,” a body of forsaken water about ten miles 
long, surrounded by swamps and burnt-lands. From 
the foot of Big Lonely the river raged away over a 
mile of thundering ledges, through a chasm known 
to the lumbermen as “The Devil’s Trough.” The 
fury of this madness having spent itself between the 
black walls of the canyon, the river continued rather 
sluggishly its long course toward the sea. A few 
miles below the Settlement the river began to get 
hurried and turbulent, chafing white through rocky 
rapids. When the bateau plunged into the first of 
these, Mandy Ann’s wailing and sobbing stopped 
abruptly. The clamour of the white waves and the 
sight of their lashing wrath fairly stupefied her. 
She sat up on the middle thwart, with the shivering 
woodchuck clutched to her breast, and stared about 


6o 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


with wild eyes. On every side the waves leaped up, 
black, white, and amber, jumping at the staggering 
bateau. But appalling as they looked to Mandy 
Ann, they were not particularly dangerous to the 
sturdy, high-sided craft which carried her. The old 
bateau had been built to navigate just such waters. 
Nothing could upset it, and on account of its high, 
flaring sides, no ordinary rapids could swamp it. 
It rode the loud chutes triumphantly, now dipping 
its lofty nose, now bumping and reeling, but always 
making the passage without serious mishap. All 
through the rapids Mandy Ann would sit silent, 
motionless, fascinated with horror. But in the long, 
comparatively smooth reaches she would recover 
herself enough to cry softly upon the woodchuck’s 
soft brown fur, till that prudent little animal, exas- 
perated at the damp of her caresses, wriggled away 
and crawled into his hated basket. 

At last, when the bateau had run a dozen of these 
noisy “rips,” Mandy Ann grew surfeited with terror, 
and thought to comfort herself. Sitting down again 
upon the bottom of the bateau, she sadly sought to 
revive her interest in the “Chaney House.” She 
would finger the choicest bits of painted porcelain, 
and tell herself how pretty they were. She would 
choose a fragment of scarlet or purple glass, hold it 
up to her pathetic, tear-stained face, and try to in- 
terest herself in the coloured landscape that filed by. 
But it was no use. Even the amber glass had lost 


ON BIG LONELY 


61 

its power to interest her. And at length, exhausted 
by her terror and her loneliness, she sank down and 
fell asleep. 

It was late afternoon when Mandy Ann fell asleep, 
and her sleep was the heavy semi-torpor coming after 
unrelieved grief and fear. It was un jarred by the 
pitching of the fiercer rapids which the bateau 
presently encountered. The last mile of the river’s 
course before joining the lake consisted of deep, 
smooth “ dead-water”; but, a strong wind from 
the north-west having sprung up toward the end of 
the day, the bateau drove on with undiminished 
speed. On the edge of the evening, when the sun 
was just sinking into the naked tops of the rampikes 
along the western shore, the bateau swept out upon 
the desolate reaches of Big Lonely, and in the clutch 
of the wind hastened down mid-lake to seek the roar- 
ing chutes and shrieking vortices of the “Devil’s 
Trough.” 

Out in the middle of the lake, where the heavy 
wind had full sweep, the pitching and thumping of 
the big waves terrified the poor little woodchuck 
almost to madness; but they made no impression on 
the wearied child, where she lay sobbing tremulously 
in her sleep. They made a great impression, 
however, on a light birch canoe, which was creeping 
up alongshore in the teeth of the wind, urged by 
two paddles. The paddlers were a couple of lum- 


62 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


bermen, returning from the mouth of the river. All 
the spring and early summer they had been away 
from the Settlement, working on “the drive’' of 
the winter’s logging, and now, hungry for home, 
they were fighting their way doggedly against wind 
and wave. There was hardly a decent camping- 
ground on all the swamp-cursed shores of Big 
Lonely, except at the very head of the lake, where 
the river came in, and this spot the voyagers were 
determined to make before dark. They would then 
have clear poling ahead of them next day, to get 
them home to the Settlement in time for supper. 

The man in the bow, a black-bearded, sturdy 
figure in a red shirt, paddled with slow, unvarying 
strokes, dipping his big maple paddle deep and 
bending his back to it, paying no heed whatever 
to the heavy black waves which lurched at him 
every other second and threatened to overwhelm the 
bow of his frail craft. He had none of the respon- 
sibility. His part was simply to supply power, 
steady, unwavering power, to make head against 
the relentless wind. The man in the stern, on the 
other hand, had to think and watch and meet every 
assault, as well as thrust the canoe forward into the 
tumult. He was a gaunt, long-armed young giant, 
bareheaded, with shaggy brown hair blown back 
from his red-tanned face. His keen grey eyes noted 
and measured every capricious lake-wave as it lunged 
at him, and his wrist, cunning and powerful, deli- 


ON BIG LONELY 


63 


cately varied each stroke to meet each instant’s 
need. It was not enough that the canoe should be 
kept from broaching-to and swamping or upsetting. 
He was anxious that it should not ship water, and 
wet certain treasures which they were taking home 
to the backwoods from the shops of the little city 
down by the sea. And while his eyes seemed to be 
so engrossingly occupied in the battle with the waves 
of Big Lonely, they were all the time refreshing them- 
selves with a vision — the vision of a grey house on a 
sunny hill-top, where his mother was waiting for 
him, and where a little yellow-haired girl would 
scream “Dad&ie, oh, Dad die when she saw him 
coming up the road. 

The dogged voyagers were within perhaps two miles 
of the head of the lake, with the sun gone down be- 
hind the desolate rampikes, and strange tints of 
violet and rose and amber, beautiful and lonely, 
touching the angry turbulence of the waves, when the 
man in the bow, whose eyes were free to wander, 
caught sight of the drifting bateau. It was a little 
ahead of them, but farther out in the lake. 

“Ain’t that old Joe’s bateau out yonder, Chris?” 
he queried, his trained woodsman’s eye recognizing 
the craft by some minute detail of build or blemish. 

“I reckon it be!” answered Chris, after a mo- 
ment’s scrutiny. “He’s let her git adrift. Water 
must be raisin’ sudden!” 

“ She’ll be a fine quality o’ kindlin’ wood in another 


6 4 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


hour, the rate she’s travellin’,” commented the other 
with mild interest. But the young giant in the stern 
was more concerned. He was sorry that old Joe 
should lose his boat. 

“Darned old fool, not to tie her!” he growled. 
“Ef ’twarn’t fer this wind ag’in’ us, we could ketch 
it an’ tow it ashore fer him. But we can’t.” 

“Wouldn’t stop fer it ef ’t had a bag o’ gold 
into it!” grunted the other, slogging on his paddle 
with renewed vigour as he looked forward to the 
camp-ground still so far ahead. He was hungry 
and tired, and couldn’t even take time to fill his pipe 
in that hurly-burly. 

Meanwhile the bateau had swept down swiftly, 
and passed them at a distance of not more than a 
hundred yards. It was with a qualm of regret that 
Chris saw it go by, to be ground to splinters in the 
yelling madness of the Devil’s Trough. After it 
had passed, riding the waves bravely like the good 
old craft that it was, he glanced back after it in half- 
humorous regret. As he did so, his eye caught 
something that made him look again. A little 
furry brown creature was peering over the gunwale 
at the canoe. The gunwale tipped toward him at 
that instant and he saw it distinctly. Yes, it was 
a woodchuck, and no mistake. And it seemed to 
be making mute appeal to him to come and save it 
from a dreadful doom. Chris hesitated, looking 
doubtfully at his companion’s heaving back. It 


ON BIG LONELY 


65 


looked an unresponsive back. Moreover, Chris 
felt half ashamed of his own compassionate impulse. 
He knew that he was considered foolishly soft- 
hearted about animals and children and women, 
though few men cared to express such an opinion 
to him too frankly. He suspected that, in the 
present case, his companion would have a right to 
.complain of him. But he could not stand the idea 
of letting the little beast — which had so evidently 
appealed to him for succour — go down into the 
horrors of the Devil’s Trough. His mind was made 
up. 

“Mart,” he exclaimed, “I’m goin’ to turn. 
There’s somethin’ aboard that there old bateau 
that I want.” And he put the head of the canoe 
straight up into a big wave. 

“The devil there is!” cried the other, taking 
in his paddle and looking around in angry protest. 
“What is it?” 

“Paddle, ye loon! Paddle hard!” ordered 
Chris. “I’ll tell ye when we git her ’round.” 

Thus commanded, and the man at the stern paddle 
being supreme in a canoe, the backwoodsman 
obeyed with a curse. It was no time to argue, while 
getting the canoe around in that sea. But as soon as 
the canoe was turned, and scudding with frightened 
swoops down the waves in pursuit of the fleeing 
bateau, he saw, and understood. 

“Confound you, Chris McKeen, if ’tain’t nothin’ 


66 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


but a blankety blank woodchuck !” he shouted, 
making as if to back water and try to turn the 
canoe again. 

Chris’s grey eyes hardened. “Look a’ here, Mart 
Babcock,” he shouted, “don’t you be up to no 
foolishness. Ye kin cuss all ye like — but either 
paddle as I tell ye or take in yer paddle an’ set quiet. 
Pm runnin’ this ’ere canoe.” 

Babcock took in his paddle, cursing bitterly. 

“A woodchuck! A measly woodchuck!” he 
shouted, with unutterable contempt expressed in 
every word. “ I know’d ye was a fool, Chris McKeen, 
but I didn’t know ye was so many kinds of a mush- 
head of a fool !” 

“Course it’s a woodchuck!” agreed Chris, surg- 
ing on his paddle. “Do ye think I’d let the leetle 
critter go down the ‘Trough,’ jest so’s ye could git 
your bacon an’ tea an hour sooner? I always did 
like woodchucks, anyways.” 

“I’ll take it out o’ yer hide fer this when we git 
ashore; you wait!” stormed Babcock, courageously. 
He knew it would be some time before they could get 
ashore, and so he would have a chance to forget his 
threat. 

“That’s all right, Mart!” assented McKeen. 
“My hide’ll be all here waitin’ on ye. But fer now 
you jest git ready to do ez I tell ye, an’ don’t let 
the canoe bump ez we come up alongside the bateau. 
It’s goin’ to be a mite resky, in this sea, gittin’ hold 



4 ‘ It’s 


Mandy Ann ! ’ ” 







ON BIG LONELY 


67 

of the leetle critter. I’m goin’ to take it home for 
Mandy Ann.” 

As the canoe swept down upon the swooping and 
staggering bateau, Babcock put out his paddle in 
readiness to fend or catch as he might be directed. 
A moment later Chris ran the canoe past and brought 
her up dexterously under the lee of the high-walled 
craft. Babcock caught her with a firm grip, at the 
same time holding her off with the paddle, and 
glanced in, while Chris’s eyes were still occupied. 
His dark face went white as cotton. 

“My God, Chris! Forgive me! I didn’t know!” 
he groaned. 

“It’s — Mandy Ann!” exclaimed her father, in a 
hushed voice, climbing into the bateau and catching 
the child into his arms. 


From Buck to Bear and Back 

HE sunny, weather-beaten, comfortable little 



house, with its grey sheds and low grey barn 
half enclosing its bright, untidy farmyard, stood 
on the top of the open hill, where every sweet forest 
wind could blow over it night and day. 

Fields of oats, buckwheat, and potatoes came up 
all about it over the slopes of the hill; and its only 
garden was a spacious patch of cabbages and “gar- 
den sass” three or four hundred yards down 
toward the edge of the forest, where a pocket of rich 
black loam had specially invited an experiment in 
horticulture. 

Like most backwoods farmers, Sam Coxen had 
been wont to look with large scorn on such petty 
interests as gardening; but a county show down 
at the Settlement had converted him, and now 
his cabbage patch was the chief object of his solici- 
tude. He had proud dreams of prizes to be won at 
the next show — now not three weeks ahead. 

It was his habit, whenever he harnessed up the 


68 


FROM BUCK TO BEAR AND BACK 69 


team for a drive into the Settlement, to turn his head 
the last thing before leaving and cast a long, 
gratified look down over the cabbage patch, its 
cool, clear green standing out sharply against the 
yellow-brown of the surrounding fields. On this 
particular morning he did not turn for that look 
till he had jumped into the wagon and gathered up 
the reins. Then, as he gazed, a wave of indignation 
passed over his good-natured face. 

There, in the middle of the precious cabbages, 
biting with a sort of dainty eagerness at first one 
and then another, and wantonly tearing open the 
crisp heads with impatient strokes of his knife-edged 
fore hoofs, was a tall wide-antlered buck. 

Sam Coxen dropped the reins, sprang from the 
wagon, and rushed to the bars which led from the 
yard to the back field; and the horses — for the 
sake of his dignity he always drove the pair when 
he went into the Settlement — fell to cropping the 
short, fine grass that grew behind the well. In spite 
of having grown up in the backwoods, Sam was lack- 
ing in backwoods lore. He was no hunter, and he 
cared as little as he knew, about the wild kindreds of 
the forest. He had a vague, general idea that all 
deer were “skeery critters”; and if any one had 
told him that the buck, in mating season, was not 
unlikely to develop a fine militant spirit, he would 
have laughed with scorn. 

Climbing upon the bars, he yelled furiously at the 


70 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


marauder, expecting to see him vanish like a red 
streak. But the buck merely raised his beautiful 
head and stared in mild surprise at the strange, 
noisy figure on the fence. Then he coolly slashed 
open another plump cabbage, and nibbled at the firm 
white heart. 

Very angry, Coxen yelled again with all the power 
of healthy lungs, and waved his arms wildly over 
his head. But the vaunted authority of the human 
voice seemed in some inexplicable way to miss a 
connexion with the buck’s consciousness. The 
waving of those angry arms, however, made an im- 
pression upon him. He appeared to take it as a 
challenge, for he shook his beautiful antlers and 
stamped his forefeet defiantly — and shattered yet 
another precious cabbage. 

Wrath struggled with astonishment in Sam Coxen’s 
primitive soul. Then he concluded that what he 
wanted was not only vengeance, but a supply 
of deer’s meat to compensate for the lost cab- 
bages. 

Rushing into the house, he snatched down his 
old muzzle-loader from the pegs where it hung on 
the kitchen wall. After the backwoods fashion, 
the gun was kept loaded with a general utility 
charge of buckshot and slugs, such as might come 
handy in case a bear should try to steal the pig. 
Being no sportsman, Coxen did not even take the 
trouble to change the old percussion-cap, which 


FROM BUCK TO BEAR AND BACK 7 r 

had been on the tube for six months. It was 
enough for him that the weapon was loaded. 

Down the other slope of the hill, where the buck 
could not see him, Coxen hurried at a run, and gained 
the cover of the thick woods. Then, still running, 
he skirted the fields till the cabbage patch came 
once more in sight, with the marauder still enjoying 
himself in the midst of it. 

At this point the long-dormant instinct of the 
hunter began to awake in Sam Coxen. Everything 
that he had ever heard about stalking big game 
flashed into his mind, and he wanted to apply it all 
at once. He noted the direction of the wind, and 
was delighted to find that it came to his nostrils 
straight from the cabbage patch. 

He went stealthily, lifting and setting down his 
heavy-booted feet with a softness of which he had 
never guessed himself capable. He began to for- 
get his indignation and think only of the prospect of 
bagging the game — so easily do the primeval in- 
stincts spring to life in a man’s brain. Presently, 
when within about a hundred yards of the place 
where he hoped to get a fair shot, Coxen redoubled 
his caution. He went crouching, keeping behind 
the densest cover. Then, growing still more crafty, 
he got down and began to advance on all fours. 

Now it chanced that Sam Coxen’s eyes were not the 
only ones which had found interest in the red buck’s 
proceedings. A large black bear, wandering just 


72 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


within the shelter of the forest, had spied the buck 
in the open, and being curious, after the fashion 
of his kind, had sat down in a thicket to watch the 
demolition of the cabbages. 

He had no serious thought of hunting the big 
buck, knowing that he would be hard to catch 
and troublesome if caught. But he was in that 
investigating, pugnacious, meddlesome mood which 
is apt to seize an old male bear in the autumn. 

When the bear caught sight of Sam Coxen’s crawling, 
stealthy figure, not two paces from his hiding-place, 
his first impulse was to vanish, to melt away like a 
big, portentous shadow into the silent deeps of the 
wood. His next, due to the season, was to rush 
upon the man and smite him. 

Then he realized that he himself was not the 
object of the man’s stealthy approach. He saw 
that what the hunter was intent upon was that buck 
out in the field. Thereupon he sank back on his 
great black haunches to watch the course of events. 
Little did Sam Coxen guess of those cunning red 
eyes that followed him as he crawled by. 

At the point where the cover came nearest to the 
cabbage patch, Coxen found himself still out of 
range. Cocking his gun, he strode some twenty 
paces into the open, paused, and took a long, de- 
liberate aim. 

Catching sight of him the moment he emerged, 
the buck stood for some moments eyeing him with 


FROM BUCK TO BEAR AND BACK 73 

sheer curiosity. Was this a harmless passer-by, or 
a would-be trespasser on his new domain of cab- 
bages? On second glance, he decided that it looked 
like the noisy figure which had waved defiance from 
the top of the fence. Realizing this, a red gleam 
came into the buck’s eye. He wheeled, stamped, 
and shook his antlers in challenge. 

At this moment, having got a good aim, Coxen pulled 
the trigger. The cap refused to explode. Angrily he 
lowered the gun, removed the cap and examined 
it. It looked all right, and there was plenty of 
priming in the tube. He turned the cap round, 
and again took careful aim. 

Now these actions seemed to the buck nothing 
less than a plain invitation to mortal combat. He 
was in just the mood to accept such an invitation. 
In two bounds he cleared the cabbages and came 
mincingly down to the fray. 

This unexpected turn of affairs so flustered the 
inexperienced hunter that he altogether forgot to 
cock his gun. Twice he pulled desperately on the 
trigger, but with no result. Then, smitten with a 
sense of impotence, he hurled the gun at the enemy 
and fled. 

Over the fence he went almost at a bound, and 
darted for the nearest tree that looked easy to 
climb. As his ill luck would have it, this tree stood 
just on the edge of the thicket wherein the much- 
interested bear was keeping watch. 


74 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


A wild animal knows when a man is running away, 
and rarely loses a chance to show its appreciation 
of the fact. As Sam Coxen sprang for the lowest 
branch and swung himself up, the bear lumbered 
out from his thicket and reared himself menacingly 
against the trunk. 

The buck, who had just cleared the fence, stopped 
short. It was clearly his turn now to play the 
part of spectator. 

When Coxen looked down and saw his new foe 
his heart swelled with a sense of injury. Were the 
creatures of the wilderness allied against him ? 
He was no coward, but he began to feel distinctly 
worried. The thought that flashed across his mind 
was: “What’ll happen to the team if I don’t get 
back to unharness them?” But meanwhile he was 
climbing higher and higher, and looking out for a 
way of escape. 

About halfway up the tree a long branch thrust 
itself forth till it fairly overhung a thick young 
spruce. Out along this branch Coxen worked his 
way carefully. By the time the bear had climbed 
to one end of the branch, Coxen had reached the 
other. Here he paused, dreading to let himself 
drop. 

The bear came on cautiously; and the great 
branch bent low under his weight, till Coxen was 
not more than a couple of feet from the top of the 
young fir. Then, nervously letting go, he dropped, 


FROM BUCK TO BEAR AND BACK 75 

caught the thick branches in his desperate clutch, 
and clung secure. 

The big branch, thus suddenly freed of Coxen’s 
substantial weight, sprang back with such violence 
that the bear almost lost his hold. Growling angrily, 
he scrambled back to the main trunk, down which 
he began to lower himself, tail foremost. 

From the business-like alacrity of the bear’s move- 
ments, Coxen realized that his respite was to be only 
temporary. He was not more than twelve feet from 
the ground, and could easily have made his escape 
while the bear was descending the other tree. But 
there below was the buck, keeping an eye of alert 
interest on both bear and man. Coxen had no mind 
to face those keen antlers and trampling hoofs. He 
preferred to stay where he was and hope for some 
unexpected intervention of fate. Like most back- 
woodsmen, he had a dry sense of the ridiculous, and 
the gravity of his situation could not quite blind him 
to the humour of it. 

While Coxen was running over in his mind every 
conceivable scheme for getting out of his dilemma, 
the last thing he would have thought of actually 
happened. The buck lost interest in the man, and 
turned all his attention to the bear, which was 
just now about seven or eight feet from the ground, 
hugging the great trunk and letting himself down 
carefully, like a small boy afraid of tearing his 
trousers. 


76 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


It is possible that that particular buck may have 
had some old score against the bears. If so, this 
must have seemed an excellent chance to collect a 
little on account. The bear’s awkward position and 
unprotected hind quarters evidently appealed to 
him. He ambled forward, reared half playfully, half 
vindictively, and gave the bear a savage prodding 
with the keen tips of his antlers. Then he bounded 
back some eight or ten paces, and waited, while the 
bear slid abruptly to the ground with a flat grunt 
of fury. 

Sam Coxen, twisting with silent laughter, nearly 
fell out of his fir-tree. 

The bear had now no room left for any remembrance 
of the man. He was in a perfect ecstasy of rage at 
the insolence of the buck, and rushed upon him like 
a cyclone. Against that irresistible charge the buck 
had no thought of making stand. Just in the nick 
of time he sprang aside in a bound that carried him a 
full thirty feet. Another such, another and another, 
and then he went capering off frivolously down the 
woody aisles, while the bear lumbered impotently 
after him. 

Before they were out of sight Sam Coxen slid 
down from his tree and made all haste over the 
fence. In the open field he felt more at ease, know- 
ing he could outrun the bear, in case of need. But 
he stopped long enough to pick up the gun. 

Then, with one pathetic glance at the ruined cab- 


FROM BUCK TO BEAR AND BACK 77 


bages, he strode hastily on up the hill, glancing 
backward from time to time to assure himself that 
neither of his late antagonists was returning to the 
attack. 


In the Deep of the Snow 


I 


ROUND the little log cabin in the clearing 



the snow lay nearly four feet deep. It loaded 
the roof. It buried the low, broad, log barn almost 
to the eaves. It whitely fenced in the trodden, 
chip-littered, straw-strewn space of the yard which 
lay between the barn and the cabin. It heaped itself 
fantastically, in mounds and domes and pillars, 
over the stumps that dotted the raw, young clear- 
ing. It clung densely on the drooping branches of 
the fir and spruce and hemlock. It mantled in a 
kind of breathless, expectant silence the solitude of 
the wilderness world. 

Dave Patton, pushing down the blankets and 
the many-coloured patchwork quilt, lifted himself on 
one elbow and looked at the pale face of his young 
wife. She was sleeping. He slipped noiselessly 
out of the bunk, lightly pulled up the coverings 
again, and hurriedly drew on two pairs of heavy, 
home-knit socks of rough wool. The cabin was 
filled with the grey light of earliest dawn, and with 
78 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 79 


a biting cold that made the woodsman’s hardy 
fingers ache. Stepping softly as a cat over the 
rude plank floor, he made haste to pile the cooking- 
stove with birch-bark, kindling, and split sticks 
of dry, hard wood. At the touch of the match 
the birch-bark caught and curled with a crisp 
crackling, and with a roar in the strong draught the 
cunningly piled mass burst into blaze. Dave Pat- 
ton straightened, and his grey eyes turned to a 
little, low bunk with high sides in the farther 
corner of the cabin. 

Peering over the edge of the bunk with big, eager, 
blue eyes, was a round little face framed in a tousled 
mop of yellow hair. A red glare from the open 
draught of the stove caught the child’s face. The 
moment she saw her father looking at her she started 
to climb out of the bunk; but Dave was instantly 
at her side, kissing her and tucking her down again 
into the blankets. 

“You mustn’t git out o’ bed, sweetie,” he whis- 
pered, “till the house gits warmed up a bit.- An’ 
don’t wake mother yet.” 

The child’s eyes danced with eagerness, but she 
restrained her voice as she replied. 

“I thought mebbe ’twas Christmis, popsie!” 
she whispered, catching his fingers. “’T first, I 
thought mebbe you was Sandy Claus, popsie. Oh, 
I wish Christmis ’Id hurry up!” 

A look of pain passed over Dave Patton’s face. 


8o 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


“Christmas won’t be along fer ’most a week yit, 
sweetie!” he answered, in the soft undertone that 
took heed of his wife’s slumbers. “An’ anyways, 
how do you s’pose Sandy Claus is goin’ to find his 
way, ’way out into these great woods, through all 
this snow?” 

“Oh, popsie l” cried the child, excitedly. Then, 
remembering, she lowered her voice again to a 
whisper. “Don’t you know Sandy Claus kin go 
anywheres ? Snow, an’ cold, an’ the — the — the 
big, black woods — they don’t bother him one little, 
teenty mite. He knows where to find me out here, 
jest’s easy’s in at the Settlements, popsie!” 

The mother stirred in her bunk, wakened by the 
little one’s voice. She sat up, shivering, and pulled 
a red shawl about her shoulders. Her eyes sought 
Dave’s significantly and sympathetically. 

“Mother’s girl must try an’ not think so much 
about Sandy Claus,” she pleaded. “I don’t want 
her to go an’ be disappointed. Sandy Claus lives 
in at the Settlements, an’ you know right well, girlie, 
he couldn’t git ’way out here, Christmas Eve, with- 
out neglecting all the little boys an’ girls at the 
Settlements. You wouldn’t want them all disap- 
pointed, just so ’s he could come to our little girl 
’way off here in the woods, what’s got her father an’ 
mother anyways !” 

The child sat up straight in her bunk, her eyes 
grew very wide and filled with tears, and her lips 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 81 


quivered. This was the first really effective blow 
that her faith in Christmas and in Santa Claus had 
ever received. But instantly her faith recovered 
itself. The eager light returned to her face, and she 
shook her yellow head obstinately. 

“He won’t have to ’lect the children in the Settle- 
ments, will he, popsie?” she cried. And without 
waiting for an answer, she went on: “He kin be 
everywheres to oncet, Sandy Claus can. He’s so good 
an’ kind, he won’t forget one of the little boys an’ 
girls in the Settlements, nor me, out here in the 
woods. Oh, mumsie, I wisht it was to-night was 
Christmas Eve!” And in her happy anticipation 
she bounced up and down in the bunk, a figure of 
fairy joy in her blue flannel nightgown. 

Dave turned away with a heavy heart and jammed 
more wood into the stove. Then, pulling on his 
thick cowhide “larrigans,” coat and woollen mittens, 
he went out to fodder the cattle. With that joyous 
roar of fresh flame in the stove the cabin was already 
warming up, but outside the door, which Dave 
closed quickly behind him, the cold had a kind of 
still savagery, edged and instant like a knife. To a 
strong man, however, it was a tonic, an honest chal- 
lenging to resistance. In spite of his sad preoc- 
cupation, Dave responded to the cold air instinc- 
tively, pausing outside the door to fill his deep lungs 
and to glance at the thrilling mystery of the sunrise 
before him. 


G 


82 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


The cabin stood at the top of the clearing 
against a background of dense spruce forest which 
sheltered it on the north and north-east. Across 
the yard, on the western side of the cabin, the 
log barn and the “ lean-to” thrust up their laden 
roofs from the surrounding snow. In front, the 
cleared ground sloped away gently to the woods 
below, a snow-swathed, mystically glimmering 
expanse, its surface tumbled by the upthrust of 
the muffled stumps. From the eastern corner of 
the clearing, directly opposite the doorway before 
which Dave was standing, the Settlements trail 
led straight away, a lane of miraculous glory, into 
the very focus of the sunrise. 

For miles upon miles the slow slope of the wilder- 
ness was towards the east, so that the trail was 
like an open gate into the great space of earth 
and sky. The sky, from the eastern horizon to 
the zenith — and that was all that Dave Patton 
had eyes for — was filled with a celestial rabble 
of rose-pink vapours, thin aerial wisps of almost 
unimaginable colour. Except the horizon! The 
horizon, just where the magic portals of the trail 
revealed it, was an unfathomable radiance of in- 
tense, transparent, orange-crimson flame, so thrill- 
ing in its strangeness that Dave seemed to feel his 
spirit striving to draw it in as his lungs were drawing 
in the vital air. From that fount of living light 
rushed innumerable streams of thin colour, making 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 83 

threads and stains and patches of mystical red among 
the tops of the lower forest, and dyeing the snowy 
surface of the clearing with the tints of mother-of- 
pearl and opal. Dave turned his head to glance at 
the cabin, the barn, and the woods behind them. 
All were bathed in that transfiguring rush of glory. 
The beauty of it gave him a curious pang, which 
turned instantly, by some association too obscure for 
him to trace, into an ache of grief at the disappoint- 
ment that was hanging over his little one’s gaily 
trusting heart. The fairylike quality of the scene 
before him made him think, by a mingling of sym- 
pathy and far-off, dim remembrance, of the fairy 
glamour and unreal radiance of beauty that Christ- 
mas tree and Christmas toys stood for in the child’s 
bright anticipations. He reminded himself of the 
glittering delights with which, during the past 
three Christmases, Lidey’s kinsfolk in the Settle- 
ment had lovingly surrounded her. Now he, her 
father, could do nothing to make her Christmas 
different from all these other days of whose shut- 
in monotony she was wearying. Hope, now, and 
excited wonder were giving the little one new life. 
Dave Patton cringed within at the thought of the 
awakening, the disillusionment, the desolation of 
sorrow that would come to the baby heart with the 
dawn of Christmas. He was overwhelmed with 
self-reproach, because he had not realized all this 
in time to make provision, before the deep snow 


8 4 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


had blocked the trail to the Settlement. Now, 
what could he do? 

Heavily Dave strode across the yard to the door 
of the barn. At the sound of his feet crunching 
the trodden and brittle snow, there came low mooings 
of eagerness from the expectant cattle in the barn. 
As he lifted the massive wooden latch and opened 
the door, the horse whinnied to him from the inner- 
most stall, there was a welcoming shuffle of hoofs, 
and a comfortable warmth puffed steamily out in 
his face. From the horse’s stall, from the stan- 
chions of the cattle, big, soft eyes all turned to him. 
As he bundled the scented hay into the mangers, 
and listened to the contented snortings and puffings 
as soft muzzles tossed the fodder, he thought how 
happy these creatures were in their warm security. 
He thought how happy he was, and his wife, reunited 
to him after three years of forced and almost con- 
tinuous separation. For him, and for the young 
wife, now recovering health in the tonic air of the 
spruce land after years of invalidism, this had 
promised to be a Christmas of unalloyed gladness. 
To one only, to the little one whose happiness 
was his continual thought, the day would be dark 
with the shattering of cherished hopes. The more 
he thought of it, the more he felt that it was not to 
be borne. Faint but piteous memories from his own 
childhood stirred in his brain, and he realized how 
irremediable, how final and desperate, seem a child’s 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 85 

small sorrows. A sudden resolve took hold upon 
him. This bitterness, at least, his little one should 
not know. He jammed the pitchfork energetically 
back into the mow and left the barn with the quick 
step of an assured purpose. 

Three years before this, Dave Patton, after a 
series of misfortunes in the Settlement, which had 
reduced him to sharp poverty, had been forced to 
leave his wife and three-years-old baby with her own 
people, while he betook himself into the remotest 
wilderness to carve out a new home for them on a 
tract of forest land which was all that remained of 
his possessions. The land was fertile and carried 
good timber, and he had begun to prosper. But his 
wife’s ill-health had long made it impossible for her 
to face the hardships and risks of a pioneer’s life 
two days’ journey from the nearest civilization. 
Not till the preceding spring had Dave dared to bring 
his family out to the wilderness home that he had 
so long been making ready for them. Then, however, 
it had proved a success. In that high and healing 
air he had seen the colour slowly come back to his 
wife’s pale cheeks; and as for the child, until the 
great snows came and cut her off from this novel 
and interesting world, she had been absorbingly 
happy in the fellowship of the wilderness. 

When Dave re-entered the cabin, he found the 
table set over by the window, and his wife beating up 
the batter for the buckwheat pancakes that she was 


86 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


about to griddle for breakfast. Lidey, still in her 
little blue flannel nightgown, but with beaded deer- 
skin moccasins on her tiny feet, and the golden wil- 
fulness of her hair tied back demurely with a blue 
ribbon, was seated at one end of the table, her eager 
face half buried in a sheet of paper. She was labori- 
ously inditing, for perhaps the twentieth time, an 
epistle to “Sandy Claus,” telling him what she hoped 
he would bring her. 

If anything had been needed to confirm Dave 
Patton in his resolve, it was this. From the rapt 
child his eyes turned and met his wife’s inquiring 
glance. 

“I reckon I’ve got to go, Mary!” he said quietly. 
“Think you two kin git- along all right fer four or 
five days? We ain’t likely to have no more snow 
this moon.” 

The woman let a little sigh escape her, but the look 
she gave her husband was one of cheerful acquies- 
cence. 

“I guess you’re right, dear! I’ll have to let you 
go, though five days seems an awful long time to be 
alone here. I’ve been thinkin’ it over,” she continued, 
guarding her words so that Lidey should not under- 
stand — “an’ I just couldn’t bear to see it, Dave!” 

“That’s so!” assented the man. “I’ll leave 
heaps o’ wood an’ kindlin’ cut, an’ you’ll jest have to 
milk an’ look after the beasts, dear. Long’ s you’re 
not scairt to be alone, it’s all right, I reckon !” 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 87 


“ When’ll you start ?” asked the wife, turning 
to pour the batter in little, sputtering, grey-white 
circles on to the hot, greased griddle. 

“First thing to-morrow mornin’ !” answered 
Dave, seating himself at the table as the appetizing 
smell of the browning pancakes filled the room. 
“Snow’s jest right for snowshoein’, an’ I’ll git back 
easy Christmas Eve.” 

“You sure won’t be late, popsie?” interrupted the 
child, looking up with apprehension in her round 
eyes. “I jest wouldn’t care one mite for Sandy Claus 
if you weren’t here too!” 

“Mebbe I’ll git him to give me a lift in his little 
sleigh! Anyways, I’ll be back!” laughed Dave, 
gaily. 

II 

After Dave had gone, setting out at daybreak on 
his moose-hide snowshoes, which crunched musi- 
cally on the hard snow, things went very well for a 
while at the lonely clearing. It was not so lonely, 
either, during the bright hours about midday, when 
the sunshine managed to accumulate something 
almost like warmth in the sheltered yard. About 
noon the two red and white cows and the yoke of 
wide-horned red oxen would stand basking in front 
of the lean-to, near the well, contentedly chewing 


88 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


their cuds. At this time the hens, too, yellow and 
black and speckled, would come out and scratch in 
the litter, perennially undiscouraged by the fact 
that the only thing they found beneath it was the 
snow. The vivid crossbills, red and black and 
white, would come to the yard in flocks, and the 
quaker-coloured snow-buntings, and the big, trust- 
ful, childlike, pine grosbeaks, with the growing stain 
of rose-purple over their heads and necks. These 
kept Lidey interested, helping to pass the days that 
now, to her excited anticipations, seemed so long. 
Perhaps half a dozen times a day she would print 
a difficult communication to Santa Claus with some 
new idea, some new suggestion. These missives were 
mailed to the good Saint of Children by the swift 
medium of the roaring kitchen fire ; and as the draught 
whisked their scorching fragments upwards, Lidey 
was satisfied that they went straight to their destina- 
tion. The child’s joy in her anticipations was now 
the more complete because, since her father’s de- 
parture, her mother had ceased to discourage her 
hopes. 

On the day before Christmas Eve, however, the 
mother felt symptoms of a return of her old sickness. 
Immediately she grew anxious, realizing how neces- 
sary it was that she should keep well. This nervous 
apprehension hastened the result that she most 
dreaded. Her pain and her weakness grew worse 
hour by hour. Mastered by her memories of what 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 89 

she had been through before, she was in no mood 
to throw off the attack. That evening, crawling to 
the barn with difficulty, she amazed the horse and 
the cattle by coaxing them to drink again, then piled 
their mangers with a two-days’ store of hay, and 
scattered buckwheat recklessly for the hens. The 
next morning she could barely drag herself out of bed 
to light the fire; and Lidey had to make her break- 
fast — which she did contentedly enough — on bread 
and butter and unlimited molasses. 

It was a weary day for the little one, in spite of 
her responsibilities. Muffled up and mittened, she 
was able, under her mother’s directions, to carry a 
little water to the stock in a small tin kettle, making 
many journeys. And she was able to keep the 
fire going. But the hours crept slowly, and she 
was so consumed with impatience that all her 
usual amusements lost their savour. Not even 
the rare delight of being allowed to cut pictures 
out of some old illustrated papers could divert her 
mind from its dazzling anticipations. But before 
Christmas could come, must come her father; and 
from noon onward she would keep running to the 
door every few minutes to peer expectantly down 
the trail. She was certain that, at the worst, he 
could not by any possibility be delayed beyond 
supper-time, for he was needed to get supper — or, 
rather, as Lidey expressed it, to help her get supper 
for mother! Lidey was not hungry, to be sure, but 


9 o 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


she was getting mortally tired of unmitigated bread 
and butter and molasses. 

Supper-time, however, came and went, and no sign 
of Dave’s return. On the verge of tears, Lidey 
munched a little of the now distasteful food. Her 
mother, worn out with the pain, which had at last 
relaxed its grip, fell into a heavy sleep. There was 
no light in the cabin except the red glow from the 
open draught of the stove, and the intense, blue- 
white moonlight streaming in through the front win- 
dow. The child’s impatience became intolerable. 

Flinging open the door for the hundredth time, 
she gazed out eagerly across the moonlit snow and 
down the trail. The cloudless moon, floating 
directly above it, transfigured that narrow and lonely 
road into a path to wonderland. In the mystic 
radiance — blue-white, but shot with faint, half- 
imagined flashes of emerald and violet — Lidey could 
see no loneliness whatever. The monstrous solitude 
became to her eyes a garden of silver and crystal. 
As she gazed, it lured her irresistibly. 

With a sudden resolve she noiselessly closed the 
door, lit the lamp, and began to put on her wraps, 
stealing about on tiptoe that she might not awaken 
her mother. She was quite positive that, by this 
time, her father must be almost home. As her little 
brain dwelt upon this idea, she presently brought 
herself to see him, striding swiftly along in the moon- 
light just beyond the turn of the trail. If she hurried, 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 


9i 


she could meet him before he came out upon the 
clearing. The thought possessed her. Stealing a 
cautious glance at her mother’s face to be sure her 
sleep was sound, she slipped out into the shine. A 
moment more and her tiny figure, hooded and muffled 
and mittened, was dancing on moccasined feet across 
the snow. 

At the entrance to the trail, Lidey felt the first qualm 
of misgiving. The path of light, to be sure, with 
all its fairy-book enticement, lay straight before 
her. But the solemn woods, on either side of the 
path, were filled with great shadows and a terrible 
stillness. At this point Lidey had half a mind to 
turn back. But she was already a young person of 
positive ideas, not lightly to be swerved from a pur- 
pose; and her too vivid imagination still persisted 
in showing her that picture of her father, speeding 
towards her just beyond the turn of the trail. 
She even thought that she could hear his steps upon 
the daunting stillness. With her heart quivering, 
yet uplifted by an exaltation of hope, she ran on, 
not daring to glance again into the woods. To sus- 
tain her courage she kept thinking of the look of gay 
astonishment that would flash into her father’s face 
as he met her running towards him — just around 
the turn of the trail ! 

The turn was nearly a quarter of a mile distant, 
but the child reached it at last. With a little cry 
of confident relief she rushed forward. The long 


92 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


trail — now half in shadow from the slight change 
in its direction — stretched out empty before her. 
In the excess of her disappointment she burst into 
tears and sat down on the snow irresolutely. 

Her first impulse — after she had cried for a minute, 
and wiped her eyes with the little mittens, which 
promptly stiffened in the stinging frost — was to face 
about and run for home as fast as she could. But 
when she turned and glanced behind her, the back- 
ward path appeared quite different. When she 
no longer faced the moonlight, the world took on an 
unfriendly, sinister look. There were unknown ter- 
rors all along that implacable blue-white way through 
the dread blackness of the woods. Sobbing with 
desolation, she turned again towards the moon. 
Ahead, for all her fears, the trail still held some- 
thing of the glamour and the dazzle. Ahead, too, 
as she reminded herself, was surely her father, hasten- 
ing to meet her, only not quite so near as she had 
imagined. Summoning back her courage, and 
comforting her lonely spirit with thoughts of what 
Santa Claus was going to bring her, she picked her- 
self up and continued her journey at a hurried little 
walk. 

She had not gone more than a few steps, when a 
strange, high sound, from somewhere far behind 
her, sent her heart into her throat and quickened 
her pace to a run. 

Again came that high, long-drawn, quavering 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 93 


sound; and the child’s heart almost stopped beating. 
If only she could see her father coming! She had 
never heard any sound just like that; it was not savage, 
nor very loud, but somehow it seemed to carry a 
kind of horror on its floating cadence. It reminded 
her, very faintly, of the howling of some dogs that 
she had heard in the Settlement. She was not afraid 
of dogs. But she knew there were no dogs' in the 
forest. 

Just as she was beginning to lose her breath and 
slacken her pace, that terrible cry came wavering 
again through the trees, much louder now and nearer. 
It lent new strength to her tired little feet, and she 
fled on faster than ever, her red lips open and her 
eyes wide. Another slight turn of the trail, and it 
ran once more directly towards the moon, stretching 
on and on till it narrowed from sight. And nowhere 
in the shining track was Dave to be seen. Lidey 
had now, however, but one thought in her quivering 
brain, and that was to keep running and get to her 
father before those dreadful voices could overtake her. 
She knew they were coming up swiftly. They sounded 
terribly near. When she had gone about two hun- 
dred yards beyond the last bend of the trail, she 
noticed, a few steps ahead of her, a tiny clearing, 
and at its farther edge the gable of a little hut rising 
a couple of feet above the snow. She knew the 
place. She had played in it that summer, while 
Dave was cutting the coarse hay on the clearing. 


94 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


It was a place that had been occupied by lonely trap- 
pers and lumber prospectors. Being a work of men’s 
hands, it gave the child a momentary sense of comfort, 
of companionship in the dreadful wild. She paused, 
uncertain whether to continue along the trail or to 
seek the shelter of the empty hut. 

When the crunching of her own little footsteps 
stopped, however, she was instantly aware of the 
padding of other feet behind her. Looking back, she 
saw a pack of grey beasts just coming around the turn. 
They were something like dogs. But Lidey knew 
they were not dogs. She had seen pictures of them 
— awful pictures. She had read stories of them which 
had frozen her blood as she read. Now, her very 
bones seemed to melt within her. They were wolves ! 
For a moment her throat could form no sound. 
Then — “ Father!” she screamed despairingly, and 
rushed for the hut. 

As she reached it, the wolves were hardly a dozen 
paces behind. The door stood half open, but drifted 
full of snow to within little more than a foot of the 
top. Into the low opening the child dived head 
first, like a rabbit, crept behind the door, and fell 
upon the snow, gasping, too horror-stricken to make 
any outcry. 

A step from the hut door the wolves halted 
abruptly. The half-buried hut, and the dark hole 
leading into it — these were things they did not 
understand, except that they recognized them as 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 


95 


belonging to man. Anything belonging to man was 
dangerous. In that dark hole they suspected a trap. 
The leader went up to it, and almost poked his nose 
into it, sniffing. But he backed away sharply as if 
he had met with a blow on the snout, and his 
nostrils wrinkled in savage enmity. The man 
smell was strong in the hut. It seemed very like a 
trap. 

Lying flat on her stomach behind the door, Lidey 
stared out through the narrow crack with eyes that 
seemed starting from her head. Out there in the 
clear glitter of the moonlight she saw the wolves go 
prowling savagely to and fro, and heard their steps 
as they cautiously circled the hut, seeking another 
entrance. They kept about five or six feet distant 
from it at first, so suspicious were they of that man 
smell that had greeted the leader’s first attempt at 
investigation. When they had prowled about the 
hut for several minutes, they all sat down on their 
haunches before the door and seemed to deliberate. 
The child felt their dreadful eyes piercing her through 
and through, as they searched her out through the 
crack and penetrated her vain hiding. 

Suddenly, while the eyes of all the pack were 
flaming upon her, she saw the leader come swiftly for- 
ward and thrust his fierce snout right against the 
crack of the door. In a sort of madness she struck 
at it with her little, mittened hand. The wolf, ap- 
parently still disconcerted by the man smell that 


96 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


greeted his nostrils, sprang back warily. Then the 
whole pack drew a foot or two closer to the open 
doorway. Ravenous though they were, they were 
not yet assured that the hut was not a trap. They 
were not yet quite ready to crawl in and secure their 
prey. But gradually they were edging nearer. A 
few moments more and the leader, no less crafty than 
savage, would creep in. Already he had accustomed 
himself to the menace of that scent. Now, he did 
creep in, as far as the middle of his body, investigat- 
ing. His red jaws and long, white teeth appeared 
around the edge of the door. At the sight Lidey’s 
voice returned to her. Shrinking back against the 
farthest wall, she gave shriek after shriek that seemed 
to tear the dreadful stillness. In the madness of her 
terror she hardly noticed that the wolf’s head was 
suddenly withdrawn. 


Ill 

When Dave Patton set out for the Settlement, he 
found the snow-shoeing so good, the biting air so 
bracing, and his own heart so light with hope and 
health, that he was able to make the journey in 
something less than a day and a half. Out of this time 
he had allowed himself four hours for sleep, in an old 
lumber camp beside the trail. At the Settlement, 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 97 

which boasted several miscellaneous stores, where 
anything from a baby’s rattle to a bag of fertilizer 
or a bedroom suite could be purchased, he had no 
difficulty in gathering such gay-coloured trifles, 
together with more lasting gifts, as he thought would 
meet Lidey’s anticipations. When he went to his 
wife’s people, he found that all had something to 
add to his Santa Claus pack, for Mary as well as 
for the little one; and he hugged himself with ela- 
tion at the thought of what a Christmas there was 
going to be in the lonely wilderness cabin. He had 
bought two or three things for his wife; and when he 
shouldered his pack, slinging it high and strapping 
it close that it might not flop with his rapid stride, 
he found the burden no light one. But the light- 
ness of his heart made compensation. 

That night he took but two hours’ sleep in the old 
lumber camp, aiming to reach home soon after noon. 
In the morning, however, things began to go wrong. 
First the pack, as packs sometimes will for no visible 
reason, developed a kink that galled his shoulders 
obstinately. Again and again he paused and tried to 
readjust it. But in vain. Finally he had to stop, 
undo the bundle, and rearrange every article in it, 
before he could induce it to “carry” smoothly. 

Half an hour later, as he turned a step off the trail 
to get a drink at a bubbling spring, that kept open 
all through the bitterest winter, he caught his snow- 
shoe on a buried branch and fell forward, breaking 

H 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


98 

the frame. In his angry impatience he attempted 
no more than a temporary repair of the damage, 
such as he thought might see him to the end of his 
journey. But the poor makeshift broke down before 
he had gone a mile. There was nothing for him to 
do but to stop long enough to make a good job of 
it, which he did by chopping out a piece of ash, whit- 
tling down a couple of thin but tough strips, and splic- 
ing the break securely with the strong “salmon 
twine” that he always carried. Even so, he realized 
that to avoid further delay he would have to go cau- 
tiously and humour the mend. And soon he had 
to acknowledge to himself that it would be long after 
supper- time, long after Lidey’s bed-time, before he 
could get home. 

As the moon rose, he was accompanied by his 
shadow, a gigantic and grotesque figure that danced 
fantastically along the snow before him. As the moon 
climbed the icy heaven, the shadow shortened and 
acquired more sobriety of demeanour. Plodding dog- 
gedly onward, too tired to think, Dave amused him- 
self with the antics of the shadow, which seemed re- 
sponsible for a portion of the crisp music that came 
from his snowshoes. 

From this careless reverie Dave was suddenly 
aroused by a ghost of sound that drifted towards him 
through the trees. It was a long, wailing cry, which 
somehow stirred the roots of his hair. He did not 
recognize it. But he felt that it was nothing human. 



isos 

« Where anything from a baby’s rattle to a bag of 

FERTILIZER COULD BE PURCHASED.” 



IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 


99 


It came from somewhere between himself and home, 
however; and he instinctively quickened his steps, 
thinking with satisfaction of the snug and well-warmed 
cabin that sheltered his dear ones. 

Presently the long cry sounded again, nearer and 
clearer now, and tremulous. Dave had heard 
wolves before, in Labrador and in the West. Had he 
not been quite sure that wolves were unknown in this 
part of the country, he would have sworn that the 
sound was the hunting cry of a wolf-pack. But 
the idea was impossible. He had no sooner made up 
his mind to this, however, than the cry was repeated 
once more. Thereupon Dave reluctantly changed 
his mind. That the sound meant wolves was not only 
possible, but certain. It filled him with resentment 
to think that those ravening marauders had come into 
the country. 

It was soon manifest to Dave’s initiated ears 
that the wolves were coming directly towards him. 
But he gathered, too, that they were in pursuit of some 
quarry. Dave had the eastern woodsman’s contempt 
for wolves, unless in a very large pack; and he soon 
decided that this pack was a small one. He did not 
think that it would dare to face him. Nevertheless, 
he recognized the remote possibility of their being 
so hungry as to forget their dread of man. That in 
such case his axe would be an all-sufficient defence 
he did not doubt. But he was in a fierce hurry to 
get home. He did not want to be stopped and forced 


IOO 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


into any fight. For a moment he thought of turning 
off through the woods and giving these night foragers 
a wide berth. Then he remembered his uncertain 
snowshoes. The snow would be very soft off the 
trail, and there would be the chance of breaking 
the shoe again. Who was he, to be turned out of his 
path by a bunch of wild curs? It was the snow-shoe 
that settled it. He set his jaws grimly, unslung his 
axe, and pressed forward. The clamour of the pack 
was now so near and loud that it quite drowned one 
single, piercing cry of “Father !” that would other- 
wise have reached his ears. There was a new note 
in the howling, too, which Dave’s ear interpreted as 
meaning that the quarry was in sight. Then the 
noise stopped abruptly, save for an impatient yelp 
or two. 

“Whatever it be they’re after, it’s took to cover,” 
said Dave to himself. “An’ in the old shanty, too!” 
he added, as he saw the little patch of clearing open 
before him. 

Realizing that the wolves had something to occupy 
fully their attention, he now crept noiselessly forward 
just within the edge of the wood. Peering forth 
from behind the cover of a drooping hemlock branch, 
he saw the roof of the hut, the half-open doorway 
nearly choked with snow, and the wolves prowling 
and sniffing around it, but keeping a couple of yards 
away. 

“Scairt of a trap!” he thought to himself with 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW ioi 


a grin, and cursed his luck that he had not his rifle 
with him. 

“A couple o’ them thick, grey pelts,” he thought — 
“what a coat they’d make for the little one!” 

There were six wolves, and big ones — enough to 
make things look pretty ugly for one man with only 
an axe. Dave was glad they had something to keep 
them from turning their attention to him. He 
watched them for a few moments, then decided to 
go around by the other side of the clearing and 
avoid trouble. 

He drew back as silently as a lynx. Where the 
woods overhead were thick, the snow was soft, 
with no crispness on the surface; and instead of 
the crunching that his steps made on the trail, here 
the snow made no sound under his feet but a sort of 
thick sigh. 

Dave had taken several paces in retreat, when an 
idea flashed up that arrested him. Why were the 
wolves so wary about entering the hut, when 
their quarry was certainly inside? Their dread of 
a trap was not, of itself, quite enough to explain 
their caution. The thought gave him a qualm of 
uneasiness. He would return and have another 
look at them! Then his impatience got the better 
of him. Mary and the little one were waiting and 
watching for him at home. He retreated another 
pace or two. What should he be doing, wasting 
his time over a parcel of wolves that had got a fox 


102 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


cornered in the old shanty? Dave felt sure it was 
a fox. But no! He could not escape the convic- 
tion-much as he wished to — that if the fugitive 
were a fox, or any other animal of the north-eastern 
woods, it would not take six hungry wolves 
much more than six seconds to get over their sus- 
picions and go in after him. What if it should be 
some half-starved old Indian, working his way into 
the Settlement after bad luck with his hunting and 
his trapping ! Whoever it was, he had no gun, 
or there would have been shooting before this. 
Dave saw that he must go back and look into the 
matter. But he was angry at this new delay. Curs- 
ing the wolves, and the Indian who didn’t know 
enough to take care of himself, Dave stole back to 
his covert behind the hemlock branch, and peered 
forth once more, no longer interested, but ag- 
grieved. 

The wolves were now Sitting on their haunches 
around the hut door. Their unusual behaviour con- 
vinced him that there was a man inside. Well, there 
was no getting around the fact that he was in for a 
fight. He only hoped that the chap inside was some 
good, and would have “somethin’ to say fer himself, 
darn him!” Dave gently lowered the bundle 
from his back, and threw off his thick coat to allow 
his arms freer play. 

It was at this moment that the leader of the pack 
made up his mind to crawl into the hut. 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 103 

As the wolf’s head entered the low opening, Dave 
gripped his axe, thrust aside the hemlock branch, and 
silently darted forth into the clearing. He did 
not shout, for he wanted to take his enemies, as far 
as possible, unawares. He had but a score of yards 
to go. So intent were they upon their leader’s move- 
ments that Dave was almost upon them ere they 
heeded the sound of his coming. Then they looked 
around. Three shrank back, startled at the tall 
and threatening shape. But two sprang at his throat 
with snapping jaws. The first met the full sweep of 
his axe, in the chest and dropped in a heap. The 
second dodged a short blow and warily drew back 
again. Then, from within the darkness of the hut, 
came those screams of the madness of terror. 

For one beat Dave’s heart stopped. He knew the 
voice ! 

The big wolf was just backing out. He turned, 
jerking himself around like a loosed spring, as he 
saw Dave towering over him. But he was not 
in time. The axe descended, sheering his haunches 
across, and he stretched out, working his great jaws 
convulsively. Dave saw that the jaws had no blood 
upon them, and his own blood returned to his heart. 
He had come in time. The screams within the hut 
died into piteous sobs. 

Across Dave’s mind flamed a vision of the agony of 
horror that Lidey had been suffering since first 
those howlings fell upon his ears. His heart-break 


104 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


transformed itself into a mad rage of vengeance. 
As he turned, with a hoarse shout, upon the rest 
of the pack, he felt a hot breath on his neck, and f 
bare fangs snapped savagely within an inch of his 
throat. His assailant sprang back in time to escape 
the deadly sweep of the axe, but at the same 
instant the other three were leaping in. One of 
these caught a glancing blow, which drove him off, 
snarling. But the other two were so close that there 
was no time for Dave to recover. Instinctively he 
jabbed a short back-stroke with the end of the axe- 
handle, and caught one of his assailants in the belly. 
Sickened, and daunted by this unexpected form of 
reprisal, the brute hunched itself with a startled 
yelp and ran off with its tail between its legs. At the 
same moment, dropping the axe, Dave caught the 
other wolf fairly by the throat. The gripping hand 
was a kind of weapon that the beast had never 
learned to guard against, and it was taken at a disad- 
vantage. With a grunt of fury and of effort Dave 
closed his grip inexorably, braced himself, and swung 
the heavy brute off its feet. Whirling it clear 
around his head, he let go. The animal flew sprawl- 
ing and twisting through the air, and came down on 
its back ten feet away. When it landed, there was 
no more fight left in it. Before Dave could reach 
it with his axe it was up and away in a panic after its 
two remaining fellows. 

Breathing heavily from his effort and from the 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 105 

storm of emotion still surging in his breast, Dave 
turned to the hut door and called — 

“Lidey! Lidey! Are you there?” 

“Popsie! Oh, popsie, dear 1 I thought you weren’t 
goin’ to come!” cried a quivering little voice. And 
the child crept out into the moonlight. 

“Oh, popsie!” she sobbed, hiding her eyes in his 
neck as he crushed her to his heart, “they were goin’ 
to eat me up, an’ I thought you wouldn’t ever 
come !” 


IV 

With the bundle on his back and Lidey in his arms, 
Dave strode homeward, his weariness forgotten. 
His first anxiety about his wife was somewhat 
eased when he learned that Lidey had left her asleep; 
for he remembered that a heavy sleep always marked 
the end of one of her attacks. He only hoped that 
the sleep would hold her until they got home, for 
his heart sank at the thought of her terror if she should 
wake and find Lidey gone. As they came out on the 
edge of the clearing, and saw that all was quiet in the 
cabin, Dave said — 

“We won’t tell mother nothin’ about the wolves 
to-night, sweetie, eh? It ’Id jest git her all worked 


106 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

up, an’ she couldn’t stand it when she’s sick. We 
won’t say nothin’ about that till to-morrow!” 

“ Yes !” murmured Lidey, “she’d be awful 
scairt!” 

They were then about halfway up the slope, when 
from the cabin came a frightened cry of “Lidey! 
Lidey!” The door was flung open, the lamplight 
streamed out in futile contest with the moonlight, and 
Mrs. Patton appeared. Her face was white with 
fear. As she saw Dave and the little one hurrying 
towards her, both hands went to her heart in the 
extremity of her relief, and she sank back into a chair 
before the door. 

Dave kicked off his snow-shoes with a dexterous 
twist, stepped inside, slammed the door, and with 
a laugh and a kiss deposited Lidey in her mother’s 
lap. 

“ She jest run down to meet me ! ” explained Dave, 
truthfully but deceptively. 

“Oh, girlie, how you frightened me!” cried 
the woman, divided between tears and smiles. “I 
woke up, Dave, an’ found her gone; an’ bein’ kind o’ 
bewildered, I couldn’t understand it!” 

She clung to his hand, while he looked tenderly 
down into her face. 

“Poor little woman!” he murmured, “you’ve 
had a bad turn ag’in, Lidey tells me. Better now, 
eh?” 

“I’m plumb all right ag’in, Dave, now you’re 


IN THE DEEP OF THE SNOW 107 

back,” she answered, squeezing his hand hard. 
“But land’s sakes, Dave, how ever did you git all 
that blood on your pants?” 

“Oh,” said the man, lightly, “that’s nothin.’ 
Tell you about it bime-by. I’m jest starvin’ now. 
Let’s have supper quick, and then give old Mr. Sandy 
Claus a chance. To-morrow we’re going to have the 
greatest Christmas ever was, us three!” 


The Gentling of Red McWha 


I 

I T was heavy sledding on the Upper Ottanoonsis 
trail. The two lumbermen were nearing the 
close of the third day of the hard four days’ haul 
in from the Settlements to the camp. At the head 
of the first team, his broad jaw set and his small grey 
eyes angry with fatigue, trudged the big figure 
of Red McWha, choosing and breaking a way 
through the deep snow. With his fiery red head and 
his large red face, he was the only one of his colour- 
ing in a large family so dark that they were known 
as the “Black McWhas,” and his temper seemed 
to have been chronically soured by the singularity 
of his type. But he was a good woodsman and a 
good teamster, and his horses followed confidently 
at his heels like dogs. The second team was led by 
a tall, gaunt- jawed, one-eyed lumberman named 
Jim Johnson, but invariably known as “Walley.” 
From the fact that his blind eye was of a peculiar 
blankness, like whitish porcelain, he had been nick- 
named “Wall-Eye”; but, owing to his general 
108 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 109 

popularity, combined with the emphatic views he 
held on that particular subject, the name had been 
mitigated to Walley. 

The two were hauling in supplies for Conroy’s 
Camp, on Little Ottanoonsis Lake. Silently, but 
for the clank and creak of the harness, and the 
soft “thut, thut” of the trodden snow, the little 
procession toiled on through the soundless desolation. 
Between the trees — naked birches and scattered, 
black-green firs — filtered the lonely, yellowish- 
violet light of the fading winter afternoon. When 
the light had died into ghostly grey along the corri- 
dors of the forest, the teams rounded a turn of the 
trail, and began to descend the steep slope which 
led down to Joe Godding’s solitary cabin on the edge 
of Burnt Brook Meadows. Presently the dark out- 
line of the cabin came into view against the pallor of 
the open clearing. 

But there was no light in the window. No 
homely pungency of wood-smoke breathed welcome 
on the bitter air. The cabin looked startlingly 
deserted. 

“Whoa!” commanded McWha, sharply, . and 
glanced round at Johnson with an angry misgiving 
in his eyes. The teams came to a stop with a shiver 
of all their bells. 

Then, upon the sudden stillness, arose the faint 
sound of a child’s voice, crying hopelessly. 

“Something wrong down yonder!” growled 


no THE BACKWOODSMEN 

McWha, his expectations of a hot supper crumbling 
into dust. 

As he spoke, Walley Johnson sprang past him and 
went loping down the hill with long, loose strides 
like a moose. 

Red McWha followed very deliberately with the 
teams. He resented anything emotional. And he 
was prepared to feel himself aggrieved. 

When he reached the cabin door the sound of 
weeping had stopped. Inside he found Walley John- 
son on his knees before the stove, hurriedly lighting 
a fire. Wrapped in his coat, and clutching his arm 
as if afraid he might leave her, stood a tiny, flaxen- 
haired child, perhaps five years old. The cabin 
was cold, almost as cold as the snapping night 
outside. Along the middle of the floor, with bed- 
clothes from the bunk heaped awkwardly upon it 
in the little one’s efforts to warm it back to re- 
sponsive life, sprawled rigidly the lank body of Joe 
Godding. 

Red McWha stared for a moment in silence, then 
stooped, examined the dead man’s face, and felt his 
breast. 

“Deader’n a herring !” he muttered. 

“Yes! the poor old shike-poke!” answered John- 
son, without looking up from his task. 

“Heart?” queried McWha, laconically. 

Johnson made no reply till the flame caught the 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA hi 


kindling and rushed inwards from the open draught 
with a cordial roar. Then he stood up. 

“Don’ know about that,” said he. “But he’s 
been dead these hours and hours! An’ the fire 
out ! An’ the kid most froze ! A sick man like he was, 
to’ve kept the kid alone here with him that way!” 
And he glanced down at the dead figure with severe 
reprobation. 

“Never was much good, that Joe Godding!” mut- 
tered McWha, always critical. 

As the two woodsmen discussed the situation, the 
child, a delicate-featured, blue-eyed girl, was gazing 
up from under her mop of bright hair, first at one, 
then at the other. Walley Johnson was the one 
who had come in answer to her long wailing, who 
had hugged her close, and wrapped her up, and 
crooned over her in his pity, and driven away the 
terrors. But she did not like to look at him, though 
his gaunt, sallow face was strong and kind. 

People are apt to talk easy generalities about the 
intuition of children ! As a matter of fact, the 
little ones are not above judging quite as superficially 
and falsely as their elders. The child looked at her 
protector’s sightless eye, then turned away and 
sidled over to McWha with one hand coaxingly 
outstretched. McWha’s mouth twisted sourly. 
Without appearing to see the tiny hand, he deftly 
evaded it. Stooping over the dead man, he picked 
him up, straightened him out decently on his 


1 1 2 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

bunk, and covered him away from sight with the 
blankets. 

“Ye needn’t be so crusty to the kid, when she 
wants to make up to ye!” protested Walley, as 
the little one turned back to him with a puzzled 
look in her tearful blue eyes. 

“It’s all alike they be, six, or sixteen, or sixty- 
six!” remarked McWha, sarcastically, stepping to 
the door. “I don’t want none of ’em! Ye kin look 
out for ’er ! I’m for the horses.” 

“Don’t talk out so loud,” admonished the 
little one. “You’ll wake Daddy. Poor Daddy’s 
sick !” 

“Poor lamb!” murmured Johnson, folding her 
to his great breast with a pang of pity. “No; we 
won’t wake daddy. Now tell me, what’s yer 
name?” 

“Daddy called me Rosy-Lilly!” answered the 
child, playing with a button on Johnson’s vest. 
“Is he gettin’ warmer now? He was so cold, and 
he wouldn’t speak to Rosy-Lilly.” 

“Rosy-Lilly it be!” agreed Johnson. “Now we 
jest won’t bother daddy, him bein’ so sick ! You an’ 
me’ll git supper.” 

The cabin was warm now, and on tiptoe John- 
son and Rosy-Lilly went about their work, setting 
the table, “ bilin’ the tea,” and frying the bacon. 
When Red McWha came in from the barn, and 
stamped the snow from his feet, Rosy-Lilly said 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 113 

“Hush!” laid her finger on her lip, and glanced 
meaningly at the moveless shape in the bunk. 

“We mus’ let ’im sleep, Rosy-Lilly says,” decreed 
Johnson, with an emphasis which penetrated Mc- 
Wha’s unsympathetic consciousness, and elicited a 
non-committal grunt. 

When supper was ready, Rosy-Lilly hung around 
him for a minute or two before dragging her chair 
up to the table. She evidently purposed paying 
him the compliment of sitting close beside him and 
letting him cut her bacon for her. But finding that 
he would not even glance at her, she fetched a deep 
sigh, and took her place beside Johnson. When 
the meal was over and the dishes had been washed 
up, she let Johnson put her to bed in her little bunk 
behind the stove. She wanted to kiss her father 
for good-night, as usual; but when Johnson insisted 
that to do so might wake him up, and be bad for 
him, she yielded tearfully; and they heard her 
sobbing herself to sleep. 

For nearly an hour the two men smoked in silence, 
their steaming feet under the stove, their backs 
turned towards the long, unstirring shape in the 
big bunk. At last Johnson stood up and shook 
himself. 

“Well,” he drawled, “I s’pose we mus’ be doin’ 
the best we kin fer poor old Joe.” 

“He ain’t left us no ch’ice!” snapped Mc- 
Wha. 

1 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


1 14 

“We can’t leave him here in the house,” con- 
tinued Johnson, irresolutely. 

“No, no!” answered McWha. “He’d ha’nt it, 
an’ us, too, ever after, like as not. We got to give 
’im lumberman’s shift, till the Boss kin send and 
take ’im back to the Settlement for the parson to do 
’im up right an’ proper.” 

So they rolled poor Joe Godding up in one of the 
tarpaulins which covered the sleds, and buried him 
deep in the snow, under the big elm behind the cabin, 
and piled a monument of cord wood above him, so 
that the foxes and wild cats could not disturb his 
lonely sleep, and surmounted the pile with a rude 
cross to signify its character. Then, with lighter 
hearts, they went back to the cabin fire, which 
seemed to burn more freely now that the grim 
presence of its former master had been removed. 

“Now what’s to be done with the kid — with 
Rosy-Lilly?” began Johnson. 

Red McWha took his pipe from his mouth, and 
spat accurately into the crack of the grate to signify 
that he had no opinion on that important subject. 

“They do say in the Settlements as how Joe God- 
ding hain’t kith nor kin in the world, savin’ an’ 
exceptin’ the kid only,” continued Johnson. 

McWha nodded indifferently. 

“Well,” went on Johnson, “we can’t do nawthin’ 
but take her on to the camp now. Mebbe the Boss’ll 
decide she’s got to go back to the Settlement, along 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 


”5 

o’ the fun’ral. But mebbe he’ll let the hands keep 
her, to kinder chipper up the camp when things gits 
dull. I reckon when the boys sees her sweet face 
they’ll all be wantin’ to be guardeens to her.” 

McWha again spat accurately into the crack of the 
grate. 

“I ain’t got no fancy for young ’uns in camp, 
but ye kin do ez ye like, Walley Johnson,” he an- 
swered grudgingly. “Only I want it understood, 
right now, I ain’t no guardeen, an’ won’t be, to naw- 
thin’ that walks in petticoats! What I’m thinkin’ 
of is the old cow out yonder, an’ them hens o’ Joe’s 
what' I seen a-roostin’ over the cowstall.” 

“Them’s all Rosy-Lilly’s, an’ goes with us an’ 
her to camp to-morrer,” answered Johnson with 
decision. “We’ll tell the kid as how her daddy 
had to be took away in the night because he was 
so sick, an’ couldn’t speak to nobody, an’ we was 
goin’ to take keer o’ her till he gits back! An’ 
that’s the truth,” he added, with a sudden passion 
of tenderness and pity in his tone. 

At this hint of emotion McWha laughed sar- 
castically. Then knocking out his pipe, he pro- 
ceeded to fill the stove for the night, and spread his 
blanket on the floor beside it. 

“If ye wants to make the camp a baby-farm,” 
he growled, “don’t mind me!” 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


116 


II 

Under the dominion of Rosy-Lilly fell Conroy’s 
camp at sight, capitulating unconditionally to 
the first appeal of her tearful blue eyes, and little, 
hurt red mouth. Dan Logan, the Boss, happened 
to know just how utterly alone the death of her 
father had left the child, and he was the first to 
propose that the camp should adopt her. Fully 
bearing out the faith which Walley Johnson had so 
confidently expressed back in the dead man’s cabin, 
Jimmy Brackett, the cook, on whom would neces- 
sarily devolve the chief care of this new member 
of his family, jumped to the proposal of the Boss 
with enthusiastic support. 

“We’ll every mother’s son o’ us be guardeen 
to her!” he declared, with the finality appropriate 
to his office as autocrat second only to the Boss 
himself. Every man in camp assented noisily, 
saving only Red McWha; and he, as was expected 
of him, sat back and grinned. 

From the first, Rosy-Lilly made herself at home 
in the camp. For a few days she fretted after her 
father, whenever she was left for a moment to her 
own devices; but Jimmy Brackett was ever on 
hand to divert her mind with astounding fairy- 
tales during the hours when the rest of the hands 
were away chopping and hauling. Long after she 
had forgotten to fret, she would have little “cryin’ 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 117 

spells ,, at night, remembering her father’s good- 
night kiss. But a baby’s sorrow, happily, is 
shorter than its remembrance; and Rosy-Lilly soon 
learned to repeat her phrase: “Poor Daddy had 
to go ’way-’ way-off,” without the quivering lip and 
wistful look which made the big woodsmen’s hearts 
tighten so painfully beneath their homespun shirts. 
Conroy’s Camp was a spacious, oblong cabin of 
“chinked” logs, with a big stove in the middle. 
The bunks were arranged in a double tier along one 
wall, and a plank table (rude, but massive) along 
the other. Built on at one end, beside the door, was 
the kitchen, or cookhouse, crowded, but clean and 
orderly, and bright with shining tins. At the inner 
end of the main room a corner was boarded off 
to make a tiny bedroom, no bigger than a cupboard. 
This was the Boss’s private apartment. It con- 
tained two narrow bunks — one for the Boss himself, 
who looked much too big for it; and one for the 
only guest whom the camp ever expected to entertain, 
the devoted missionary-priest, who, on his snow- 
shoes, was wont to make the round of the widely 
scattered camps once or twice in a winter. This 
guest-bunk the Boss at once allotted to Rosy- 
Lilly, but on the strict condition that Johnson 
should continue to act as nurse and superintend 
Rosy-Lilly’ s nightly toilet. 

Rosy-Lilly had not been in the camp a week 
before McWha’s “ugliness” to her had aroused 




1 18 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

even the Boss’s resentment, and the Boss was a 
just man. Of course, it was generally recognized 
that McWha was not bound, by any law or obligation, 
to take any notice of the child, still less to “make 
a fuss over her,” with the rest of the camp. But 
Jimmy Brackett expressed the popular sentiment 
when he growled, looking sourly at the back of 
McWha’s unconscious red head bowed ravenously 
over his plate of beans — 

“If only he’d do something, so’s we c’ld lick 
some decency inter ’im!” 

There was absolutely nothing to be done about 
it, however; for Red McWha was utterly within 
his rights. 

Rosy-Lilly, as we have seen, was not yet five 
years old; but certain of the characteristics of her 
sex were already well developed within her. The 
adulation of the rest of the camp, poured out at her 
tiny feet, she took graciously enough, but rather as a 
matter of course. It was all her due. But what 
she wanted was that that big, ugly, red-headed man, 
with the cross grey eyes and loud voice, should be 
nice to her. She wanted him to pick her up, and 
set her on his knee, and whittle wonderful wooden 
dogs and dolls and boats and boxes for her with 
his jack-knife, as Walley Johnson and the others 
did. With Walley she would hardly condescend 
to coquet, so sure she was of his abject slavery to 
her whims; and, moreover, as must be confessed 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 119 


with regret, so unforgiving was she in her heart 
toward his blank eye. She merely consented to 
make him useful, much as she might a convenient 
and altogether doting but uninteresting grand- 
mother. To all the other members of the camp — 
except the Boss, whom she regarded with some 
awe — she would make baby-love impartially and 
carelessly. But it was Red McWha whose notice 
she craved. 

When supper was over, and pipes filled and 
lighted, some one would strike up a “ chantey ” 
— one of those interminable, monotonous ballad- 
songs which are peculiar to the lumber camps. 

These “ chanteys,” however robust their wordings 
or their incidents, are always sung in a plaintive 
minor which goes oddly with the large-moulded 
virility of the singers. Some are sentimental, or 
religious, to the last degree, while others reek with 
an indecency of speech that would shroud the 
Tenderloin in blushes. Both kinds are equally 
popular in the camps, and both are of the most 
astounding naivete. Of the worst of them, even, 
the simple-minded woodsmen are not in the least 
ashamed. They seem unconscious of their enormity. 
Nevertheless, it came about that, without a word 
said by any one, from the hour of Rosy-Lilly’s 
arrival in camp, all the indecent “chanteys” 
were dropped, as if into oblivion, from the woods- 
men’s repertoire. 


120 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


During the songs, the smoking, and the lazy 
fun, Rosy-Lilly would slip from one big woodsman 
to another, an inconspicuous little figure in the 
smoke-gloomed light of the two oil-lamps. Man 
after man would snatch her up to his knee, lay 
by his pipe, twist her silky, yellow curls about his 
great blunt fingers, and whisper wood-folk tales 
or baby nonsense into her pink little ear. She 
would listen solemnly for a minute or two, then 
wriggle down and move on to another of her admirers. 
But before long she would be standing by the bench 
on which sat Red McWha, with one big knee usually 
hooked high above the other, and his broad back 
reclined against the edge of a bunk. For a few 
minutes the child would stand there smiling with a 
perennial confidence, waiting to be noticed. Then 
she would come closer, without a word from her 
usually nimble little tongue, lean against McWha’s 
knee, and look up coaxingly into his face. If 
McWha chanced to be singing, for he was a “chanter” 
of some note, he would appear so utterly absorbed 
that Rosy-Lilly would at last slip away, with a 
look of hurt surprise in her face, to be comforted 
by one of her faithful. But if McWha were not 
engrossed in song, it would soon become impossible 
for him to ignore her. He would suddenly look 
down at her with his fierce eyes, knit his shaggy 
red brows, and demand harshly: “Well, Yaller Top, 
an’ what d 'you want?” 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 121 


From the loud voice and angry eye the child 

would retreat in haste, clear to the other end of the 
room, and sometimes a big tear would track its way 
down either cheek. After such an experiment 
she would usually seek Jimmy Brackett, who would 
console her with some sticky sweetmeat, and strive 
to wither McWha with envenomed glances. McWha 
would reply with a grin, as if proud of having 

routed the little adventurer so easily. He had 

discovered that the name “Yaller Top” was an 
infallible weapon of rebuff, as Rosy-Lilly con- 

sidered it a term of indignity. To his evil humour 
there was something amusing in abashing Rosy- 
Lilly with the title she most disliked. Moreover, 
it was an indirect rebuke to the “saft” way the 
others acted about her. 

If Rosy-Lilly felt rebuffed for the moment by 
McWha’s rudeness, she seemed always to forget it 
the next time she saw him. Night after night she 
would sidle up to his knee, and sue for his notice; 
and night after night she would retire discomfited. 
But on one occasion the discomfiture was Mc- 
Wha’s. She had elicited the customary rough de- 
mand — 

“Well, Yaller Top, what d 'you want?” 

But this time she held her ground, though with 
quivering lips. 

“Yaller Top ain’t my name ’tall,” she explained 
with baby politeness. “It’s Rosy-Lilly; ’n’ I jes’ 


122 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


thought you might want me to sit on yer knee a 
little, teeny minit.” 

Much taken aback, McWha glanced about the 
room with a loutish grin. Then he flushed angrily, 
as he felt the demand of the sudden silence. Look- 
ing down again, with a scowl, at the expectant 
little face of Rosy-Lilly, he growled: “Well, not 
as I knows of!” and rose to his feet, thrusting 
her brusquely aside. 

“Ain’t he uglier’n hell?” murmured Bird Pigeon 
to Walley Johnson, spitting indignantly on the stove- 
leg. “He’d ’a’ cuffed the kid ef he da’st, he glared 
at her that ugly!” 

“Like to see ’im try it!” responded Johnson 
through his teeth, with a look to which his blank 
eye lent mysterious menace. 

The time soon came, however, when McWha re- 
sumed his old seat and his old attitude on the 
bench. Rosy-Lilly avoided him for two evenings, 
but on the third the old fascination got the better 
of her pique. McWha saw her coming, and, growing 
self-conscious, he hurriedly started up a song with 
the full strength of his big voice. 

The song was a well-known one, and nothing in 
it to redden the ear of a maiden; but it was 
profane with that rich, ingenious amplitude of 
profanity which seems almost instinctive among 
the lumbermen — a sort of second mother-tongue to 
them. Had it been any one but McWha who 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 


123 


started it, nothing would have been said; but, as it 
was, Walley Johnson took alarm on the instant. 
To his supersensitive watchfulness, McWha was 
singing that song “jest a purpose to be ugly to 
the kid.” The fact that “the kid” would hardly 
understand a word of it, did not occur to him. 
Rising up from his bench behind the stove he 
shouted out across the smoky room : “ Shet up 
that, Red!” 

The song stopped. Every one looked inquiringly 
at Johnson. For several moments there was silence, 
broken only by an uneasy shuffling of feet. Then 
McWha got up slowly, his eyebrows bristling, his 
angry eyes little pin-points. First he addressed 
himself to Johnson. 

“What the business is’t o’ yourn what I 

sing?” he demanded, opening and shutting his big 
fingers. 

“I’ll show ye what,” began Johnson, in a tense 
voice. But the Boss interrupted. Dave Logan 
was a quiet man, but he ruled his camp. Moreover, 
he was a just man, and Johnson had begun the 
dispute. 

“Chuck that, Walley!” he snapped, sharp as a 
whip. “If there’s to be any row in this here camp, 
I’ll make it myself, an’ don’t none o’ you boys forgit 
it!” 

McWha turned upon him in angry appeal. 

“You’re Boss, Dave Logan, an’ what you sez goes, 


/ 


124 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


fer’s I’m concerned,” said he. “But I ax you, as 
Boss, be this here camp a camp, er a camp- 
meetin’? Walley Johnson kin go straight to hell; 
but ef you sez we ’ain’t to sing nawthin’ but hymns, 
why, o’ course, it’s hymns for me — till I kin git 
away to a camp where the hands is men, an’ not 
wet-nurses ! ” 

“That’s all right, Red!” said the Boss. “I 
kin make allowances for yer gittin’ riled, considerin’ 
the jolt Walley’s rude interruption give ye ! He 
hadn’t no right to interrupt, nor no call to. This 
ain’t no camp-meetin’. The boys have a right 
to swear all they like. Why, ’twouldn’t be noways 
natural in camp ef the boys couldn’t swear ! 
somethin’d hev to bust before long. An’ the boys 
can’t be expected to go a- tiptoe and talk prunes an’ 
prisms, all along o’ a little yaller-haired kid what’s 
come to brighten up the old camp fer us. That 
wouldn’t be sense ! But all we’ve got to mind is 
jest this — nothin ’ vile ! That’s all, boys. We’ll 
worry along without that!” 

When the Boss spoke, he liked to explain himself 
rather fully. When he ceased, no one had a word 
to say. Every one was satisfied but Johnson; 
and he was constrained to seem so. There was an 
oppressive silence for some seconds. It was broken 
by the soft treble of Rosy-Lilly, who had been 
standing before the Boss and gazing up into his 
face with awed attention throughout the harangue. 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 125 


“What did you say, Dave?” she piped, her hands 
clasped behind her back. 

“Somethin’ as shall never tech you, Rosy-Lilly !” 
declared Johnson, snatching up the child and 
bearing her off to bed, amid a roar of laughter 
which saved Dave Logan the embarrassment of a 
reply. 

For a time, now, Rosy-Lilly left McWha alone, so 
markedly that it looked as if Walley Johnson or 
Jimmy Brackett had admonished her on the subject. 
She continued, indeed, to cast at him eyes of pleading 
reproach, but always from a distance, and such ap- 
peals rolled off McWha’s crude perception like water 
off a musk rat’s fur. He had nothing “agin her,” 
as he would have put it, if only she would keep out 
of his way. But Rosy-Lilly, true to her sex, was 
not vanquished by any means, or even discouraged. 
She was only biding her time. Bird Pigeon, who 
was something of a beau in the Settlements, under- 
stood this, and stirred the loyal wrath of Walley 
Johnson by saying so. 

“There ain’t nawthin’ about Red McWha to 
make Rosy-Lilly keer shucks fer ’im, savin’ an’ ex- 
cept that she can’t git him!” said Bird. “She’s 
that nigh bein’ a woman a’ready, if she be but five 
year old !” 

Johnson fixed him with his disconcerting eye, and 
retorted witheringly — 

“Ye thinks ye knows a pile about women, Bird 


126 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


Pigeon. But the kind ye knows about ain’t the 
kind Rosy-Lilly’s agoin’ to be!” 

Nearly a week went by before Rosy-Lilly saw 
another chance to assail McWha’s forbidding 
defences. This time she made what her innocent 
heart conceived to be a tremendous bid for the 
bad-tempered woodsman’s favour. Incidentally, too, 
she revealed a secret which the Boss and Walley 
Johnson had been guarding with guilty solicitude 
ever since her coming to the camp. 

It chanced that the Boss and Johnson together 
were kept away from camp one night till next morn- 
ing, laying out a new “landing” over on Fork’s 
Brook. When it came time for Rosy-Lilly to be 
put to bed, the honour fell, as a matter of course, to 
Jimmy Brackett. Rosy-Lilly went with him willingly 
enough, but not till after a moment of hesitation, in 
which her eyes wandered involuntarily to the 
broad, red face of McWha behind its cloud of smoke. 

As a nursemaid, Jimmy Brackett flattered him- 
self that he was a success — till the moment came 
when Rosy-Lilly was to be tucked into her bunk. 
Then she stood and eyed him with solemn question. 

“What’s wrong, me honey-bug?” asked Brackett, 
anxiously. 

“You hain’t heard me my prayers!” replied 
Rosy-Lilly, with a touch of severity in her voice. 

“Eh? What’s that?” stammered Brackett, 
startled quite out of his wonted composure. 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 127 

“ Don’t you know little girls has to say their 
prayers afore they goes to bed?” she demanded. 

“No!” admitted Brackett, truthfully, wonder- 
ing how he was going to get out of the unex- 
pected situation. 

“Walley Johnson hears me mine!” continued 
the child, her eyes very wide open as she weighed 
Brackett’s qualifications in her merciless little 
balance. 

Here, Brackett was misguided enough to grin, 
bethinking him that now he “had the laugh” on 
the Boss and Walley. That grin settled it. 

“I dess you don’t know how to hear me say 
’em, Jimmy!” she announced inexorably. And 
picking up the skirt of her blue homespun “nightie,” 
so that she showed her little red woollen socks and 
white deer-hide moccasins, she tripped forth into 
the big, noisy room. 

At the bright picture she made, her flax-gold hair 
tied in a knob on top of her head that it might not 
get tangled, the room fell silent instantly, and 
every eye was turned upon her. Nothing abashed 
by the scrutiny, she made her way sedately down 
the room and across to McWha’s bench. Unable 
to ignore her, and angry at the consciousness that 
he was embarrassed, McWha eyed her with a grim 
stare. But Rosy-Lilly put out her hands to him 
confidingly. 

“I’m goin’ to let you hear me my prayers,” 


128 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


she said, her clear, baby voice carrying every syllable 
to the furthest corner of the room. 

An ugly light flamed into McWha’s eyes, and he 
sprang to his feet, brushing the child rudely aside. 

“That’s some o’ Jimmy Brackett’s work!” he 
shouted. “It’s him put ’er up to it, curse him!” 

The whole room burst into a roar of laughter at 
the sight of his wrath. Snatching his cap from 
its peg, he strode furiously out to the stable, slam- 
ming the door behind him. 

In their delight over McWha’s discomfiture the 
woodsmen quite forgot the feelings of Rosy-Lilly. 
For a second or two she stood motionless, her lips 
and eyes wide open with amazement. Then, hurt 
as much by the laughter of the room as by McWha’s 
rebuff, she burst into tears, and stood hiding her 
face with both hands, the picture of desolation. 

When the men realized that she thought they were 
laughing at her, they shut their mouths with amazing 
promptitude, and crowded about her. One after 
another picked her up, striving to console her with 
caresses and extravagant promises. She would not 
uncover her eyes, however, for any one, and her 
heart-broken wailing was not hushed till Brackett 
thrust his way through the crowd, growling inarticu- 
late blasphemies at them all, and bore her back 
to her room. When he emerged twenty minutes 
later no one asked him about Rosy-Lilly’s prayers. 
As for Rosy-Lilly, her feelings were this time so 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 129 

outraged that she would no longer look at Mc- 
Wha. 


Ill 

The long backwoods winter was now drawing near 
its end, and the snow in the open spaces was getting 
so soft at midday as to slump heavily and hinder 
the work of the teams. Every one was working with 
feverish haste to get the logs all out to the “land- 
ings,” on the river banks before the hauling should 
go to pieces. At night the tired lumbermen would 
tumble into their bunks as soon as supper was over, 
too greedy of sleep to think of songs or yarns. And 
Rosy-Lilly began to feel a little aggrieved at the in- 
adequate attention which she was now receiving from 
all but Jimmy Brackett and the ever-faithful 
Johnson. She began to forgive McWha, and once 
more to try her baby wiles upon him. But McWha 
was as coldly unconscious as a stone. 

One day, however, Fate concluded to range her- 
self on Rosy-Lilly’ s side. A dead branch, hurled 
through the air by the impact of a falling tree, 
struck Red McWha on the head, and he was carried 
home to the cabin unconscious, bleeding from a long 
gash in his scalp. The Boss, something of a surgeon 
in his rough and ready way, as bosses need to be, 
washed the wound and sewed it up. Then he handed 
over his own bunk to the wounded man, declaring 

.K 


130 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


optimistically that McWha would come round all 
right, his breed being hard to kill. 

It was hours later when McWha began to recover 
consciousness, and just then, as it happened, there 
was no one near him but Rosy-Lilly. Smitten 
with pity, the child was standing beside the bunk, 
murmuring: “Poor! poor! I so sorry!” and slowly 
shaking her head and lightly patting the big, limp 
hand where it lay outside the blanket. 

McWha half opened his eyes, and their faint 
glance fell on the top of Rosy-Lilly’s head as she 
bent over his hand. With a wry smile he shut 
them again, but to his surprise, he felt rather 
gratified. Then Jimmy Brackett came in and 
whisked the child away. “’S if he thought I’d 
bite ’er!” mused McWha, somewhat inconsistently. 

For a long time he lay wondering confusedly. At 
last he opened his eyes wide, felt his bandaged head, 
and called for a drink of water in a voice which he 
vainly strove t(^ make sound natural. To his sur- 
prise he was answered by Rosy-Lilly, so promptly 
that it was as if she had been listening for his voice. 
She came carrying the tin of water in both little 
hands, and, lifting it very carefully, she tried to 
hold it to his lips. Neither she nor McWha was 
quite successful in this, however. While they were 
fumbling over it, Jimmy Brackett hurried in, fol- 
lowed by the Boss, and Rosy-Lilly’s nursing was 
superseded. The Boss had to hold him up so that 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 13 1 

he could drink; and when he had feverishly gulped 
about a quart, he lay back on his pillow with a huge 
sigh, declaring weakly that he was all right. 

“Ye got off mighty easy, Red,” said the Boss, 
cheerfully, “considerin’ the heft o’ the knot ’at hit 
ye. But you McWhas was always hard to kill.” 

McWha’s hand was drooping loosely over the 
edge of the bunk. He felt the child’s tiny fingers 
brushing it again softly and tenderly. Then he 
felt her lips upon it, and the sensation was so novel 
that he quite forgot to reply to the Boss’s pleasantry. 

That night McWha was so much better that 
when he insisted on being removed to his own bunk 
on the plea that he “didn’t feel at home in a cup- 
board like,” the Boss consented. Next day he 
wanted to go back to work, but the Boss was deri- 
sively inexorable, and for two days McWha was 
kept a prisoner. 

During this tipie Jimmy Brackett, with severe 
and detailed admonition, kept Rosy-Lilly from 
again obtruding upon the patient’s leisure; and 
McWha had nothing to do but smoke and whittle. 
He whittled diligently, but let no one see what he 
was making. Then, borrowing a small tin cup from 
the cook, he fussed over the stove with some dark, 
smelly decoction of tobacco-juice and ink. Rosy- 
Lilly was consumed with curiosity, especially when 
she saw him apparently digging beads off an Indian 
tobacco-pouch which he always carried. But she 


132 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


did not go near enough to get enlightened as to his 
mysterious occupation. 

On the following day McWha went to work again, 
but not till after breakfast, when the others had 
long departed. Rosy-Lilly, with one hand twisted 
in her little apron, was standing in the doorway 
as he passed out. She glanced up at him with the 
most coaxing smile in her whole armoury of allure- 
ments. McWha would not look at her, and his face 
was as sullenly harsh as ever; but as he passed he 
slipped something into her hand. To her speechless 
delight, it proved to be a little dark-brown wooden 
doll, daintily carved, and with two white beads, 
with black centres, cunningly set into its face for 
eyes. 

Rosy-Lilly hugged the treasure to her breast. 
Her first proud impulse was to run to Jimmy 
Brackett with it. But a subtler instinct withheld 
her. The gift had been bestowed in such a surrep- 
titious way that she felt it to be somehow a kind of 
secret. She carried it away and hid it in her bunk, 
where she would go and look at it from time to time 
throughout the day. That night she brought it forth, 
but with several other treasures, so that it quite 
escaped comment. She said nothing about it to 
McWha, but she played with it when he could not 
help seeing it. And thereafter her “nigger-baby 1 
was always in her arms. 

This compliment, however, was apparently all lost 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 133 

on McWha, who had again grown unconscious 
of her existence. And Rosy-Lilly, on her part, no 
longer strove to win his attention. She was con- 
tent either with the victory she had won, or with the 
secret understanding which, perforce, now existed 
between them. And things went on smoothly in 
the camp, with every one now too occupied to do 
more than mind his own business. 

It chanced this year that the spring thaws were 
early and unusually swift, warm rains alternating 
with hot, searching sunshine which withered and 
devoured the snow. The ice went out with a rush 
in the rapidly rising Ottanoonsis; and from every 
brookside “landing” the logs came down in black, 
tumbling swarms. Just below Conroy’s Camp the 
river wallowed round a narrow bend, tangled with 
slate ledges. It was a nasty place enough at low 
water, but in freshet a roaring terror to all the river- 
men. When the logs were running in any numbers, 
the bend had to be watched with vigilance lest a 
jam should form, and the waters be dammed back, 
and the lumber get “hung up” all over the swamps 
of the upper reaches. 

And here, now, in spite of the frantic efforts of 
Dave Logan and his crew, the logs suddenly began 
to jam. Pitching downward as if propelled by a 
pile-driver, certain great timbers drove their ends 
between the upstanding strata of the slate, and held 
against the torrent till others came and wedged them 


134 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


securely. The jam began between two ledges in 
midstream, where no one could get near it. In a 
few minutes the interlocked mass stretched from 
bank to bank, with the torrent spurting and spout- 
ing through it in furious milk-white jets. Log after 
log was chopped free by the axemen along the shore, 
but the mass remained unshaken. Meanwhile the 
logs were gathering swiftly behind, ramming down 
and solidifying the whole structure, and damming 
back the flood till its heavy thunder diminished to 
the querulous rattling of a mill-race. In a short 
time the river was packed solid from shore to shore 
for several hundred yards above the brow of the 
jam; and above that again the waters were rising 
at a rate which threatened in a few hours to flood 
the valley and sweep away the camp itself. 

At this stage of affairs the Boss, axe in hand, 
picked his way across the monstrous tangle of the 
face of the jam between the great white jets, till 
he gained the centre of the structure. Here his 
practised eye, with the aid of a perilous axe-stroke 
here and there, — strokes which might possibly bring 
the whole looming mass down upon him in a moment, 
— presently located the timbers which held the 
structure firm, “the key-logs,” as the men call 
them. These he marked with his axe. Then, re- 
turning to the shore, he called for two volunteers 
to dare the task of cutting these key-logs away. 

Such a task is the most perilous that a lumberman, 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 135 

in all his daring career, can be called upon to per- 
form. So perilous is it that it is always left to volun- 
teers. Dave Logan had some brilliant feats of jam- 
breaking to his credit, from the days before he was 
made a Boss; and now, when he called for volun- 
teers, every unmarried man in camp responded, 
with the exception, of course, of Walley Johnson, 
whose limited vision unfitted him for such a venture. 
The Boss chose Bird Pigeon and Andy White, be- 
cause they were not only “ smart ” axemen, but 
also adepts in the river-men’s games of “ running 
logs.” 

With a jaunty air the two young men spat on 
their hands, gripped their axes, and sprang out 
along the base of the jam. Every eye in camp was 
fixed upon them with a fearful interest as they plied 
their heavy blades. It was heroic, of a magnificence 
of valour seldom equalled on any field, the work 
of these two, chopping coolly out there in the daunt- 
ing tumult, under that colossal front of death. 
Their duty was nothing less than to bring the top- 
pling brow of the jam down upon them, yet cheat 
Fate at the last instant, if possible, by leaping to 
shore before the chaos quite overwhelmed them. 

Suddenly, while the two key-logs were not yet 
half cut through, the trained eye of the Boss de- 
tected a settling near the top of the jam. His yell 
of warning tore through the clamour of the waters. 
At the instant came a vast grumbling, like under- 


136 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


ground thunder, not loud apparently, yet dulling 
all other sounds. The two choppers sprang wildly 
for shore, as the whole face of the jam seemed to 
crumble in a breath. 

At this moment a scream of terror was heard — 
and every heart stopped. Some thirty yards or so 
upstream, and a dozen, perhaps, from shore, stood 
Rosy-Lilly, on a log. While none were observing 
her she had gleefully clambered out over the solid 
mass, looking for spruce-gums. But now, when 
the logs moved, she was so terror-stricken that she 
could not even try to get ashore. She just fell 
down upon her log, and clung to it, screaming. 

A groan of horror went up. The awful grinding 
of the break-up was already under way. To every 
trained eye it was evident that there was no human 
possibility of reaching the child, much less of saving 
her. To attempt it would be such a madness as to 
jump into the hopper of a mill. The crowd surged 
to the edge — and sprang back as the nearest logs 
bounded up at them. Except Walley Johnson. 
He leaped wildly out upon the nearest logs, fell 
headforemost, and was dragged back, fighting 
furiously, by a dozen inexorable hands. 

Just as Johnson went down, there arose a great 
bellowing cry of rage and anguish ; then Red McWha’s 
big form shot past, leaping far out upon the logs. 
Over the sickening upheaval he bounded this way 
and that, with miraculous sure-footedness. He 


THE GENTLING OF RED McWHA 137 


reached the pitching log whereon Rosy-Lilly still 
clung. He clutched her by the frock. He tucked 
her under one arm like a rag-baby. Then he turned, 
balancing himself for an instant, and came leaping 
back towards shore. 

A great shout of wonder and joy went up — to be 
hushed in a second as a log reared high in McWha’s 
path and hurled him backwards. Right down into 
the whirl of the dreadful grist he sank. But with 
a strength that seemed more than human he re- 
covered himself, climbed forth dripping, and came 
on again with those great, unerring leaps. This 
time there was no shout. The men waited with 
dry throats. They saw that his ruddy face had gone 
white as chalk. Within two feet of shore a log to- 
ward which he had jumped was jerked aside just 
before he reached it, and, turning in the air as he 
fell, so as to save the child, he came down across 
it on his side with stunning violence. As he fell 
the Boss and Brackett and two of the others sprang 
out to meet him. They reached him somehow, 
and covered with bruises which they did not feel, 
succeeded in dragging him, with his precious burden, 
up from the grinding hell to safety. When his 
feet touched solid ground he sank unconscious, but 
with his arm so securely gripped about the child 
that they had difficulty in loosing his hold. 

Rosy-Lilly, when they picked her up, was quiver- 
ing with terror, but unharmed. When she saw 


1 3 8 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

McWha stretched out upon the bank motionless, 
with his eyes shut and his white lips half open, she 
fought savagely to be put down. She ran and flung 
herself down beside her rescuer, caught his big white 
face between her tiny hands, and fell to kissing him. 
Presently McWha opened his eyes, and with a 
mighty effort rose upon one elbow. A look of 
embarrassment passed over his face as he glanced 
at the men standing about him. Then he looked 
down at Rosy-Lilly, grinned with a shamefaced 
tenderness, and pulled her gently towards him. 

“I’m right — glad — ye — ” he began with painful 
effort. But before he could complete the sentence 
his eyes changed, and he fell back with a clicking 
gasp. 

Jimmy Brackett, heedless of her wailing protests, 
snatched up Rosy-Lilly, and carried her back to the 
camp. 


Melindy and the Lynxes 


T HE deep, slow-gathering snows of mid-February 
had buried away every stump in the pasture 
lot and muffled from sight all the zigzag fences of 
the little lonely clearing. The Settlement road was 
simply smoothed out of existence. The log cabin, 
with its low roof and one chimney, seemed half 
sunken in the snow which piled itself over the lower 
panes of its three tiny windows. 

The log barn, and the lean-to, which served as 
wood-shed and wagon-house, showed little more than 
the black edges of their snow-covered roofs over the 
glittering and gently billowing white expanse. 

In the middle of the yard the little well-house, 
shaped like the top of a “grandfather’s clock,” carried 
a thick, white, crusted cap, and was encircled with a 
streaky, irregular mass of ice, which had gradually 
accumulated almost up to the brim of the watering- 
trough. From the cabin door to the door of the 
barn, and over most of the yard space, but par- 
ticularly in front of the sunward-facing lean-to, the 
snow was trodden down and littered with chips and 
straw. 


139 


140 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


Here in the mocking sunshine huddled four white 
sheep, while half a dozen hens and a red Shanghai 
cock scratched in the litter beside them. The low 
door of the barn was tightly closed to protect the cow 
and horse from the bitter cold — which the sheep, 
with their great fleeces, did not seem to mind. 

Inside the cabin, where an old-fashioned, high- 
ovened kitchen stove, heated to the point where a 
dull red glow began to show itself in spots, kept the 
close air at summer temperature, a slim girl with 
fluffy, light hair and pale complexion stood by the 
table, vigorously mixing a batter of buckwheat 
flour for pancakes. Her slender young arms were 
streaked with flour, as was her forehead also, from 
her frequent efforts to brush her hair out of her eyes 
by quick upward dashes of her forearm. 

On the other side of the stove, so close to it that 
her rugged face was reddened by the heat, sat a 
massive old woman in a heavy rocking-chair, knit- 
ting. She knitted impetuously, impatiently, as if 
resenting the employment of her vigorous old fingers 
upon so mild a task. 

Through a clear space in one pane of the window 
beside her — a space where the heat within had tri- 
umphed over the frost without — she cast restless, 
keen eyes out across the yard to the place where the 
road, the one link between the cabin and the settle- 
ment, lay smothered from sight. 

“It’s one week to-day, Melindy,” she announced 


MELINDY AND THE LYNXES 14 1 

in a voice of accusing indignation, “since there’s 
been a team got through; and it’s going to be another 
before they’ll get the road broke out!” 

“Like as not, Granny,” responded the girl, beating 
the batter with an impatience that belied the cheer- 
fulness of her tone. “ But what does it matter, 
anyway? We’re all right here for a month!” 

As she spoke, however, her eyes, too, gazed out 
wistfully over the buried road. She was weary- 
ing for the sound of bells and for a drive into 
the Settlement. 

Meanwhile, from the edge of the woods on the 
other side of the cabin, hidden from the keen eyes 
within by the roofs of the barn and the shed, came 
two great, grey, catlike beasts, creeping belly to the 
snow. 

Their broad, soft-padded paws were like snow 
shoes, bearing them up on the wind-packed surface. 
Their tufted ears stood straight up, alert for any 
unwonted sound. Their absurd stub tails, not four 
inches long, and looking as if they had been bitten 
off, twitched with eagerness. Their big round eyes, 
of a pale greenish yellow, and with the pupils nar- 
rowed to upright, threadlike black slits by the 
blinding glare, glanced warily from side to side 
with every step they took. 

The lynxes had the keenest dislike to crossing the 
open pasture in this broad daylight, but they had 
been driven by hunger to the point where the customs 


I 4 2 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


and cautions of their wary kind are recklessly thrown 
aside. Hunger had driven the pair to hunt together, 
in the hope of together pulling down game too power- 
ful for one to master alone. Hunger had overcome 
their savage aversion to the neighbourhood of man, 
and brought them out in the dark of night to prowl 
about the barn and sniff longingly the warm smell 
of the sheep, steaming through the cracks of the 
clumsy door. 

Watching from under the snow-draped branches, 
they had observed that only in the daytime were the 
sheep let out from their safe shelter behind the clumsy 
door. And now, forgetting everything but the 
fierce pangs that urged them, the two savage beasts 
came straight down the rolling slope of the pasture 
towards the barn. 

A few minutes later there chme from the yard a 
wild screeching and cackling of the hens, followed 
by a trampling rush and agonized bleating. The old 
woman half rose from her chair, but sank back in- 
stantly, her face creased with a spasm of pain, for 
she was crippled by rheumatism. The girl dropped 
her big wooden spoon on the floor and rushed to the 
window that looked out upon the yard. Her pale 
face went paler with (horror, then flushed with wrath 
and pity; and a fierce light flashed into her wide 
blue eyes. 

“It’s lynxes!” she cried, snatching up the wooden 
spoon and darting for the door. “And they’ve 


MELINDY AND THE LYNXES 143 

f ♦ 

got one of the sheep ! Oh, oh, they’re tearing 
it!” 

“Melindy!” shouted the old woman, in a voice 
of strident command — such a compelling voice that 
the girl stopped short in spite of herself. “Drop 
that fool spoon and get the gun!” 

The girl dropped the spoon as if it had burned her 
fingers, and looked irresolutely at the big duck-gun 
hanging on the log wall. “I can’t fire it!” she ex- 
claimed, shaking her head. “I’d be scared to death 
of it!” 

But even as the words left her mouth, there came 
another outburst of trampling and frantic clamour 
from the yard. She snatched up the little, long- 
handled axe which leaned beside the door-post, threw 
the door wide open, and with a pitying cry of “ Oh ! 
oh ! ” flew forth to the rescue of her beloved sheep. 

“Did you ever see the like of that?” muttered 
the old woman, her harsh face working with excite- 
ment and high approbation. “Scairt to death of a 
gun — and goes out to fight lynxes all by herself!” 

And with painful effort she began hitching herself 
and the big chair across the floor, seeking a position 
where she could both reach the gun and command 
a view through the wide-open door. 

When Melindy, her heart aflame with pity for 
the helpless ewes, rushed out into the yard, she 
saw one woolly victim down, kicking silently on 
the bloodstained snow, while a big lynx, crouched 


144 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


upon its body, turned upon her a pair of pale eyes 
that blazed with fury at the interruption to his feast. 

The other sheep were foundered helplessly in the 
deep snow back of the well — except one. This one, 
which had evidently been headed off from the flock, 
and driven round to the near side of the watering- 
trough before its savage enemy overtook it, was not 
half a dozen paces from the cabin door. It was 
just stumbling forward upon its nose, with a de- 
spairing baa-a-a! while the second and larger lynx, 
clinging upon its back, clutched hungrily for its 
throat through the thick, protecting wool. 

On ordinary occasions the girl was as timid as 
her small, pale face and gentle blue eyes made her 
look. At this crisis, however, a sort of fury of com- 
passion swept all fear from her heart. 

Like the swoop of some strange bird, her skirts 
streaming behind her, she flung herself upon the 
great cat, and aimed a lightning blow at his head 
with her axe. In her frail grip the axe turned, so that 
the brute caught the flat of it instead of the edge. 

Half-stunned, he lost his hold and fell with a 
startled pfiff on the snow, while his victim, bleeding, 
but not mortally hurt, ran bleating towards the rest 
of the flock, where they floundered, stupidly helpless, 
in three feet of soft snow. 

The next moment the baffled lynx recovered him- 
self, and faced the girl with so menacing a snarl 
that she hesitated to follow up her advantage, 


MELINDY AND THE LYNXES 145 

but paused, holding the axe in readiness to repel 
attack. 

For a few seconds they faced each other so, the 
girl and the beast. Then the pale, beast eyes shifted 
under the steady, dominating gaze of the blue 
human ones; and at last, with a spitting growl, 
which ended in a hoarse screech of rage, the big 
cat bounded aside and whisked behind the well- 
house. The next moment it was again among 
the sheep, where they huddled incapable of a 
struggle. 

Again the girl sprang to the rescue; and now, 
because of that one flash of fear which had deprived 
her of her first advantage, her avenging wrath was 
-fiercer and more resolute than before. This time, 
as she darted upon the enemy, she gave an in- 
voluntary cry of rage, piercing and unnatural. At 
this unexpected sound the lynx, desperate though 
he was with rage and hunger, lost his courage. 

Seeing the girl towering almost over him, he 
doubled back with a mighty leap, just avoiding the 
vengeful sweep of the axe, and darted back to the 
front of the shed, where his mate was now ravenously 
feasting on her easy prey. 

Although the first victim was now past all suf- 
fering, being no more a motive for heroism than so 
much mutton, the girl’s blood was too hot with 
triumphant indignation to let her think of such an 
unimportant point as that. She was victor. She 


146 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


had outfaced and routed the foe. She had saved 
one victim. She would avenge the other. 

With the high audacity of those who have over- 
come fear, she now, with a hysterical cry of menace, 
ran at the two lynxes, to drive them from their prey. 

The situation which she now confronted, however, 
was altogether changed from what had gone before. 
The two lynxes were together, strong in that alliance 
which they had formed for purpose of battle. They 
were fairly mad with famine — or, indeed, they 
would never have ventured on the perilous domains 
of man. 

Moreover, they were in possession of what they 
held to be their lawful prey — a position in defence 
of which all the hunting tribes of the wild will fight 
against almost any odds. As they saw their strange 
adversary approaching, the hair stood straight up 
along their backs, their little tails puffed to bottle 
brushes, their ears lay flat back on their heads, and 
they screeched defiance in harsh unison. Then, as 
if by one impulse, they turned from their prey and 
crept stealthily towards her. 

They did not like that steady light in her blue eyes, 
but they felt by some instinct that she was young 
and unstable of nerve. At this unexpected move on 
their part the girl stopped short, suddenly undecided 
whether to fight or flee. 

At once the lynxes stopped also, and crouched 
flat, tensely watching, their claws dug deep into the 


MELINDY AND THE LYNXES 147 

hard-trodden snow so as to give them purchase for 
an instant, powerful spring in any direction. 

In the meantime, however, the crippled old woman 
within doors had not been idle. Great of spirit, 
and still mighty of sinew for all her ailment, she 
had managed to work the weight of the heavy chair 
and her own solid bulk all the way across the cabin 
floor. Being straight in front of the door, she had 
seen almost all that happened; and her brave 
old berserk heart was bursting with pride in the 
courage of this frail child, whom she had hitherto 
regarded with a kind of affectionate scorn. 

The Griffises of Nackawick and Little River 
had always been sizable men, men of sinew and bulk, 
and women tall and ruddy; and this small, blue- 
eyed girl had seemed to her, in a way, to wrong the 
stock. But she was quick to understand that the 
stature of the spirit is what counts most of 
all. 

Now, in this moment of breathless suspense, when 
she saw Melindy and the two great beasts thus hold- 
ing each other eye to eye in a life and death struggle 
of wills, her heart was convulsed with a wild fear. 
In the spasm of it she succeeded in lifting herself 
almost erect, and so gained possession of the big 
duck-gun, which her son Jake, now away in the 
lumber woods, always kept loaded and ready for 
use. As she cocked it and settled back into her 
chair, she called in a piercing voice — 


1 48 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

“Don’t stir one step, Melindy! I’m going to 
shoot !” 

The girl never stirred a muscle, although she 
turned pale with terror of the loud noise which was 
about to shock her ears. The two lynxes, however, 
turned their heads, and fixed the pale glare of their 
eyes upon the figure seated in the doorway. 

The next moment came a spurt of red flame, a 
belch of smoke, a tremendous report that seemed 
as if it must have shattered every pane of glass in 
the cabin windows. The bigger of the two lynxes 
turned straight oyer backward and lay without a 
quiver, smashed by the heavy charge of buckshot 
with which Jake had loaded the gun. The other, 
grazed by a scattering pellet, sprang into the air 
with a screech, then turned and ran for her life 
across the snow, stretching out like a terrified cat. 

With a proud smile the old woman stood the 
smoking gun against the wall and straightened her 
cap. For perhaps half a minute Melindy stood 
rigid, staring at the dead lynx. Then, dropping her 
axe, she fled to the cabin, flung herself down with 
her face in her grandmother’s lap, and broke into a 
storm of sobs. 

The old woman gazed down upon her with some 
surprise, and stroked the fair, fluffy head lovingly as 
she murmured: “There, there! There’s nothing to 
take on about! Though you be such a little mite 
of a towhead, you’ve got the grit, you’ve got the 


MELINDY AND THE LYNXES 149 

grit, Melindy Griffis. It’s proud of you I am, and it’s 
proud your father’ll be when I tell him about it.” 

Then, as the girl’s weeping continued, and her 
slender shoulders continued to twist with her sobs, 
the rugged old face that bent above her grew tenderly 
solicitous. 

“There, there!” she murmured again. “’Tain’t 
good for you to take on so, deary. Hadn’t you better 
finish beating up the pancakes before the batter 
spiles?” 

Thus potently adjured, although she knew as well 
as her grandmother that there was no immediate 
danger of the batter spoiling, the girl got up, dashed 
the back of her hand across her eyes with a little 
laugh, closed the door, got out another spoon from 
the table drawer, and cheerfully resumed her inter- 
rupted task of mixing pancakes. And the sheep, 
having slowly extricated themselves from the deep 
snow behind the well-house, huddled together, with 
heads down, in the middle of the yard, fearfully eye- 
ing the limp body which lay before the shed. 


Mrs. Gammit’s Pig 


“ T’VE come to borry yer gun!” said Mrs. Gam- 
mit, appearing suddenly, a self-reliant figure, 
at the open door of the barn where Joe Barron sat 
mending his harness. She wore a short cotton 
homespun petticoat and a dingy waist; while a 
limp pink cotton sunbonnet, pushed far back from 
her perspiring forehead, released unmanageable 
tufts of her stiff, iron-grey hair. 

“What be you awantin’ of a gun, Mrs. Gammit?” 
inquired the backwoodsman, looking up without 
surprise. He had not seen Mrs. Gammit, to be 
sure, for three months; but he had known all the 
time that she was there, on the other side of the 
ridge, one of his nearest neighbours, and not more 
than seven or eight miles away as the crow flies. 

“It’s the bears!” she explained. “They do be 
gittin’ jest a leetle mite too sassy, down to my place. 
There ain’t no livin’ with ’em. They come rootin’ 
round in the garden, nights. An’ they’ve et up the 
white top-knot hen, with the whole settin’ of eggs, 
that was to hev’ hatched out next Monday. An’ 
150 


MRS. GAMMIT’S PIG 


151 

they’ve took the duck. An’ last night they come 
after the pig.” 

“They didn’t git him , did they?” inquired Joe 
Barron sympathetically. 

“No, siree!” responded Mrs. Gammit with deci- 
sion. “An’ they ain’t agoin’ to! They scairt him 
though, snuffin’ round outside the pen, trying to 
find the way in. — I’ve hearn tell they was powerful 
fond of pork. — He set up sich a squealin’ it woke me; 
an’ I yelled at ’em out of the winder. I seen 
one big black chap lopin’ off behind the barn. I 
hadn’t nothin’ but the broom fer a weapon, so he 
got away from me. I’ll git him to-night, though, 
I reckon, if I kin have the loan of your gun.” 

“Sartain,” assented the woodsman, laying down 
the breech-strap he was mending. “Did you ever 
fire a gun?” he inquired suddenly, as he was start- 
ing across the yard to fetch the weapon from his 
cabin. 

“I can’t rightly say I hev’,” answered Mrs. Gam- 
mit, with a slight note of scorn in her voice. “But 
from the kind of men I’ve seen as kin , I reckon it 
ain’t no great trick to larn.” 

Joe Barron laughed, and went for the weapon. 
He had plenty of confidence in his visitor’s ability to 
look out for herself, and felt reasonably sure that 
the bears would be sorry for having presumed upon 
her unprotected state. When he returned with the 
gun — an old, muzzle-loading duck-gun, with a huge 


152 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


bore — she accepted it with careless ease and held 
it as if it were a broom. But when he offered her 
the powder-horn and a little bag of buck-shot, she 
hesitated. 

“What be them for?” she inquired. 

Joe Barron looked serious. 

“Mrs. Gammit,” said he, “I know you kin do 
most anything a man kin do — an’ do it better, may- 
be! A woman like you don’t have to apologize for 
nothin’. But you was not brung up in the woods, 
an’ you can’t expect to know all about a gun jest 
by heftin' it. Folks that’s been brung up in town, 
like you, have to be told how to handle a gun. This 
here gun ain’t loaded. And them ’ere’s the powder 
an’ buck-shot to load her with. An’ here’s caps,” 
he added, producing a small, brown tin box of 
percussion caps from his trousers pocket. 

Mrs. Gammit felt abashed at her ignorance, but 
gratified, at the same time, by the reproach of 
metropolitanism. This implication of town-bred 
incompetency was most flattering to the seven frame 
houses and one corner store of Burd Settlement, 
whence she hailed. 

“I reckon you’d better show me how to load the 
thing, Mr. Barron,” she agreed quite humbly. And 
her keen grey eyes took in every detail, as the woods- 
man rammed home the powder hard, wadded down 
the charge of buck-shot lightly, and pointed out 
where she must put the percussion cap when she 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


x 53 

should be ready to call upon the weapon for its 
services. 

“Then,” said he in conclusion, as he lifted the 
gun to his shoulder and squinted along the barrel, 
“of course you know all the rest. Jest shet one eye, 
an’ git the bead on him fair, an’ let him have it — 
a leetle back of the fore-shoulder, fer choice! An’ 
that b’ar ain’t agoin’ to worry about no more pork, 
nor garden sass. An’ recollect, Mrs. Gammit, at 
this time of year, when he’s fat on blueberries, 
he’ll make right prime pork himself, ef he ain’t too 
old and rank.” 

As Mrs. Gammit strode homeward through the 
hot, silent woods with the gun — still carrying it as if 
it were a broom — she had no misgivings as to her fit- 
ness to confront and master the most redoubtable 
of all the forest kindreds. She believed in herself — 
and not only her native Burd Settlement, but the 
backwoods generally held that she had cause to. 
A busy woman always, she had somehow never 
found time to indulge in the luxury of a husband; 
but the honorary title of “Mrs.” had early been con- 
ferred upon her, in recognition of her abundant and 
confident personality and her all-round capacity 
for taking care of herself. To have called her 
“Miss” would have been an insult to the fitness of 
things. When, at the age of sixty, she inherited 
from an only, and strictly bachelor, brother a little 
farm in the heart of the wilderness, some forty miles 


i54 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


in from the Settlement, no one doubted her ability 
to fill the role of backwoodsman and pioneer. It 
was vaguely felt that if the backwoods and Mrs. 
Gammit should fail to agree on any important point, 
so much the worse for the backwoods. 

And indeed, for nearly two years and a half 
everything had gone swimmingly. The solitude 
had never troubled Mrs. Gammit, to whom her own 
company was always congenial — and, as she felt, 
the only company that one could depend upon. 
Then she had her two young steers, well broken 
to the yoke; the spotted cow, with one horn turned 
up and the other down; the grey and yellow cat, 
with whom she lived on terms of mutual tolerance; 
a turkey-cock and two turkey hens, of whom she 
expected much; an assortment of fowls, brown, 
black, white, red, and speckled ; one fat duck, 
which had so far been nothing but a disappointment 
to her; and the white pig, which was her pride. 
No wonder she was never lonely, with all these good 
acquaintances to talk to. Moreover, the forces of 
the wild, seeming to recognize that she was a woman 
who would have her way, had from the first easily 
deferred to her. The capricious and incomprehen- 
sible early frosts of the forest region had spared her 
precious garden patch ; cut-worm and caterpillar 
had gone by the other way; the pip had overlooked 
her early chickens ; and as for the customary 
onslaughts of wild-cat, weasel, fox, and skunk, she 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


r 55 


had met them all with such triumphant success that 
she began to mistake her mere good luck for the 
quintessence of woodcraft. In fact, nothing had hap- 
pened to challenge her infallibility, nothing what- 
ever, until she found that the bears were beginning 
to concern themselves about her. 

To be sure, there was only one bear mixed up in 
the matter; but he chanced to be so diligent, 
interested, and resourceful, that it was no wonder 
he had got himself multiplied many times over in 
Mrs. Gammit’s indignant imagination. When she 
told Joe Barron “that the bears was gittin’ so 
sassy there wasn’t no livin’ with ’em,” she had little 
notion that what she referred to was just one, soli- 
tary, rusty, somewhat moth-eaten animal, crafty 
with experience and years. This bear, as it chanced, 
had had advantages in the way of education not 
often shared by his fellow-roamers of the wilderness. 
He had passed several seasons in captivity in one of 
the settlements far south of the Quah-Davic Valley. 
Afterwards, he had served an unpleasant term in a 
flea-ridden travelling menagerie, from which a 
railway smash-up had given him release at the 
moderate cost of the loss of one eye. During his 
captivity he had acquired a profound respect for 
men, as creatures who had a tendency to beat him 
over the nose and hurt him terribly if he failed to 
do as they wished, and who held in eye and voice the 
uncomprehended but irresistible authority of fate. 


1 5 6 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

For women, however, he had learned to entertain a 
casual scorn. They screamed when he growled, 
and ran away if he stretched out a paw at them. 
When, therefore, he had found himself once more 
in the vast responsible freedom of the forest, and 
reviving with some difficulty the half-forgotten art 
of shifting for himself, he had given a wide berth to 
the hunters’ shacks and the cabins of lumbermen 
and pioneers. But when, on the other hand, he 
had come upon Mrs. Gammit’s clearing, and realized, 
after long and cautious investigations, that its pre- 
siding genius was nothing more formidable than 
one of those petticoated creatures who trembled 
at his growl, he had licked his chops with pleasant 
anticipation. Here, at last, was his opportunity, — 
the flesh-pots of servitude, with freedom. 

Nevertheless, the old bear was prudent. He 
would not presume too quickly, or too far, upon the 
harmlessness of a petticoat, and — as he had observed 
from a dense blackberry thicket on the other side of 
the fence, while she was at work hoeing her potatoes — 
there was an air about Mrs. Gammit which seemed 
to give her petticoats the lie. He had watched 
her for some time before he could quite satisfy 
himself that she was a mere woman. Then he 
had tried some nocturnal experiments on the 
garden, sampling the young squashes which were 
Mrs. Gammit’s peculiar pride, and finding them 
so good that he had thought surely something would 


MRS. GAMMIT’S PIG 


i57 


happen. Nothing did happen, however, because Mrs. 
Gammit slept heavily; and her indignation in the 
morning he had not been privileged to view. 

After this he had grown bolder — though always 
under cover of night. He had sampled everything 
in the garden — the abundance of his foot-prints 
convincing Mrs. Gammit that there was also an 
abundance of bears. From the garden, at length, 
he had ventured to the yard and the barn. In a 
half-barrel, in a corner of the shed, he had stumbled 
upon the ill-fated white top-knot hen, faithfully 
brooding her eggs. Undeterred by her heroic scold- 
ing, and by the trifling annoyance of her feathers 
sticking in his teeth, he had made a very pleasant 
meal of her. And still he had heard nothing from 
Mrs. Gammit, who, for all her indignation, could not 
depart from her custom of sound sleeping. If he 
had taken the trouble to return in the morning, he 
might have perceived that the good lady was far 
from pleased, and that there was likely to be some- 
thing doing before long if he continued to take such 
liberties with her. And then, as we have seen, he 
had found the duck — but her loss Mrs. Gammit had 
taken calmly enough, declaring it to be nothing 
more than a good riddance to bad rubbish. 

It was not until the return of moonlight nights 
that the bear had discovered the white pig, and thus 
come face to face, at last, with a thoroughly aroused 
Mrs. Gammit. True to his kind, he did like pork; 


1 58 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

but absorbed in the easier adventures of the garden 
and the shed, he had not at first noted the rich 
possibilities of the pig-pen, which occupied one 
corner of the barn, under the loft. Suspicious of 
traps, he would not, at first, enter the narrow 
opening of the stable door, the wide main doors being 
shut. He had preferred rather to sniff around out- 
side at the corner of the barn, under the ragged birch- 
tree in which the big turkey-cock had his perch. 
The wakeful and wary old bird, peering down upon 
him with suspicion, had uttered a sharp qwit , qwit, 
by way of warning to whom it might concern; 
while the white pig, puzzled and worried, had sat up 
in the dark interior of the pen and stared out at him 
in silence through the cracks between the boards. 
At last, growing impatient, the bear had caught the 
edge of a board with his claws, and tried to tear it 
off. Nothing had come except some big splinters; 
but the effort, and the terrifying sound that accom- 
panied it, had proved too much for the self-control 
of the white pig. An ear-splitting succession of 
squeals had issued from the dark interior of the pen, 
and the bear had backed off in amazement. 

Before he could recover himself and renew his 
assault, the window of the cabin had gone up with 
a skittering slam. The white pig’s appeal for help 
had penetrated Mrs. Gammit’s solid slumbers, 
and she had understood the situation. “Scat! 
you brute!” she had yelled frantically, thrusting 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


i59 


head and shoulders so far out through the window 
that she almost lost her balance in the effort to shake 
both fists at once. 

The bear, not understanding the terms of her 
invective, had sat up on his haunches and turned 
his one eye mildly upon the bristling tufts of grey 
hair which formed a sort of halo around Mrs. 
Gammit’s virginal nightcap. Then Mrs. Gammit, 
realizing that the time for action was come, had 
rushed downstairs to the kitchen, seized the first 
weapon she could lay hands upon — which chanced 
to be the broom — flung open the kitchen door, and 
dashed across the yard, screaming with indignation. 

It was certainly an unusual figure that she made in 
the radiant moonlight, her sturdy, naked legs re- 
volving energetically beneath her sparse night-gown, 
and the broom whirling vehemently around her head. 
For a moment the bear had contemplated her with 
wonder. Then his nerves had failed him. Doubtless, 
this was a woman — but not quite like the ordinary 
kind. It was better, perhaps, to be careful. With 
a reluctant grunt he had turned and fled, indifferent 
to his dignity. And he had thought best not to stop 
until he found himself quite beyond the range of 
Mrs. Gammit’s disconcerting accents, which rang harsh 
triumph across the solemn, silvered stillness of the 
forest. 

It was, of course, this imminent peril to the pig 
which had roused Mrs. Gammit to action and sent 


160 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

her on that long tramp over the ridges to borrow 
Joe Barron’s gun. In spite of her easy victory in 
this particular instance, she had appreciated the 
inches of that bear, and realized that in case of any 
further unpleasantnesses with him a broom might 
not prove to be the most efficient of weapons. With 
the gun, however, and her distinct remembrance of 
Joe Barron’s directions for its use, she felt equal to 
the routing of any number of bears — provided, of 
course, they would not all come on together. As 
the idea flashed across her mind that there might be a 
pack of bears to face, she felt uneasy for a second, 
and even thought of bringing the pig into the house 
for the night, and conducting her campaign from 
the bedroom window. Then she remembered she 
had never heard of bears hunting in packs, and her 
little apprehension vanished. In fact, she now grew 
quite eager for night to bring the fray. 

It was a favourite saw of Mrs. Gammit’s that “ a 
watched pot takes long to bile”; and her experi- 
ence that night exemplified it. With the kitchen 
door ajar, she sat a little back from the window. 
Herself hidden, she had a clear view across the bright 
yard. Very slowly the round moon climbed the 
pallid summer sky, changing the patterns of the 
shadows as she rose. But the bear came not. Mrs. 
Gammit began to think, even to fear, that her impet- 
uosity of the night before had frightened him away. 
At last her reveries grew confused. She sat up very 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


161 


straight, and blinked very hard, to make sure that 
she was quite awake. Just as she had got herself 
most perfectly reassured on this point, her head sank 
gently forward upon the window-sill, and she slept 
deeply, with her cheek against the cold, brown barrel 
of the gun. 

Yes, the bear had hesitated long that night. 
And he came late. The moon had swung past her 
zenith, and was pointing her black shadows across 
the yard in quite another direction when he came. 
By this time he had recovered confidence and made 
up his mind that Mrs. Gammit was only a woman. 
After sniffing once more at the cracks to assure him- 
self that the pig was still there, he went around to the 
stable door and crept cautiously in. 

As his clumsy black shape appeared in the bright 
opening, the pig saw it. It filled his heart with a 
quite justifiable horror, which found instant poig- 
nant expression. Within those four walls the noise 
was so startlingly loud that, in spite of himself, the 
bear drew back — not intending to retreat, indeed, 
but only to consider. As it chanced, however, 
seeing out of only one eye, he backed upon the 
handle of a hay rake which was leaning against the 
wall. The rake very properly resented this. It fell 
upon him and clutched at his fur like a live thing. 
Startled quite out of his self-possession, he retreated 
hurriedly into the moonlight, for further considera- 
tion of these unexpected phenomena. And as he 


M 


162 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


did so, across the yard the kitchen door was flung 
open, and Mrs. Gammit, with the gun, rushed forth. 

The bear had intended to retire behind the barn 
for a few moments, the better to weigh the situation. 
But at the sight of Mrs. Gammit’s fluttering petti- 
coat he began to feel annoyed. It seemed to him 
that he was being thwarted unnecessarily. At the 
corner of the barn, just under the jutting limb of 
the birch-tree, he stopped, turned, and sat up on his 
haunches with a growl. The old turkey-cock, 
stretching his lean neck, glared down upon him with 
a terse qwitl qwitl of disapproval. 

When the bear stopped, in that resolute and 
threatening attitude, Mrs. Gammit instinctively 
stopped too. Not, as she would have explained 
had there been any one to explain to, that she was 
“one mite scairt,” but that she wanted to try Joe 
Barron’s gun. Raising the gun to her shoulder, 
she shut one eye, looked carefully at the point of 
the barrel with the other, and pulled the trigger. 
Nothing whatever happened. Lowering the weapon 
from her shoulder she eyed it severely, and perceived 
that she had forgotten to cock it. At this a shade 
of embarrassment passed over her face, and she glanced 
sharply at the bear to see if he had noticed her mis- 
take. Apparently, he had not. He was still sitting 
there, regarding her unpleasantly with his one small 
eye. 

“Ye needn’t think ye’re agoin’ to git off, jest b t- 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


163 


cause I made a leetle mistake like that!” muttered 
Mrs. Gammit, shutting her teeth with a snap, and 
cocking the gun as she raised it once more to her 
shoulder. 

Now, as it chanced, Joe Barron had neglected to 
tell her which eye to shut, so, not unnaturally, Mrs. 
Gammit shut the one nearest to the gun — nearest 
to the cap which was about to go off. She also neg- 
lected to consider the hind-sight. It was enough 
for her that the muzzle of the gun seemed to cover 
the bear. Under these conditions she got a very 
good line on her target, but her elevation was some- 
what at fault. She pulled the trigger. 

This time it was all right. There was a terrific, 
roaring explosion, and she staggered backwards 
under the savage kick of the recoil. Recovering 
herself instantly, and proud of the great noise she 
had made, she peered through the smoke, expecting 
to see the bear topple over upon his nose, extin- 
guished. Instead of that, however, she observed a 
convulsive flopping of wings in the birch-tree above 
the bear’s head. Then, with one reproachful 
“gobble” which rang loud in Mrs. Gammit’s ears, 
the old turkey-cock fell heavily to the ground. He 
would have fallen straight upon the bear, but that 
the latter, his nerves completely upset by so much 
disturbance, was making off at fine speed through 
the bushes. 

The elation on Mrs. Gammit’s face gave way to 


164 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


consternation. Then she reddened to the ears with 
wrath, dashed the offending gun to the ground, and 
stamped on it. She had done her part, that she knew, 
but the wretched weapon had played her false. Well, 
she had never thought much of guns, anyway. Hence- 
forth she would depend on herself. 

The unfortunate turkey-cock now lay quite still. 
Mrs. Gammit crossed the yard and bent over the 
sprawling body in deep regret. She had had a 
certain affection for the noisy and self-sufficient 
old bird, who had been “company” for her as he 
strutted “gobbling” about the yard with stiff- 
trailed wings while his hens were away brooding 
their chicks. “Too bad!” she muttered over him, 
by way of requiem; “too bad ye had to go an’ git in 
the road o’ that blame gun!” Then, suddenly be- 
thinking herself that a fowl was more easily plucked 
while yet warm, she carried the limp corpse, head 
downward, across the yard, fetched a basket from 
the kitchen, sat down on the doorstep in the moon- 
light, and began sadly stripping the victim of his 
feathers. He was a fine, heavy bird. As she sur- 
veyed his ample proportions Mrs. Gammit mur- 
mured thoughtfully: “I reckon as how I’m goin’ 
to feel kinder sick o’ turkey afore I git this all 
et up !” 

On the following day Mrs. Gammit carefully 
polished the gun with a duster, removing all trace 
of the indignities she had put upon it, and stood it 


MRS. GAMMTTS PIG 165 

away behind the dresser. She had resolved to 
conduct the rest of the campaign against the bears 
in her own way and with her own weapons. The 
way and the weapons she now proceeded to think out 
with utmost care. 

Being a true woman and a true housewife, it was 
perhaps inevitable that she should think first, and, 
after due consideration given to everything else, 
including pitchforks and cayenne pepper, that she 
should think last and finally, of the unlimited 
potentialities of boiling water. To have it actually 
boiling, at the critical moment, would of course be 
impracticable; but with a grim smile she concluded 
that she could manage to have it hot enough for her 
purpose. She had observed that this bear which 
was after the pig had learned the way into the pen. 
She felt sure that, having found from experience 
that loud noises did not produce bodily injuries, he 
would again come seeking the pig, and this time with 
more confidence than ever. 

On this point, thanks to her ignorance of bears in 
general, she was right. Most bears would have 
been discouraged. But this bear in particular had 
learned that when men started out to be disagreeable 
to bears, they succeeded only too well. He had 
realized clearly that Mrs. Gammit had intended to 
be disagreeable to him. There was no mistaking 
her intentions. But she had not succeeded. Ergo, 
she was not, as he had almost feared, a man, but 


1 66 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

really and truly a woman. He came back the next 
night fully determined that no squeals, or brooms, 
or flying petticoats, or explosions, should divert 
him from his purpose and his pork. He came early; 
but not, as it chanced, too early for Mrs. Gammit, 
who seemed somehow to have divined his plans and 
so taken time by the forelock. 

The pen of the white pig, as we have already 
noted, was in a corner of the barn, and under one 
end of the loft. Immediately above the point where 
the bear would have to climb over, in order to get 
into the pen, Mrs. Gammit removed several of the 
loose boards which formed the flooring of the loft. 
Beside this opening, at an early hour, she had en- 
sconced herself in secure ambuscade, with three 
pails of the hottest possible hot water close beside 
her. The pails were well swathed in blankets, 
quilts, and hay, to keep up the temperature of their 
contents. And she had also a pitchfork “layin’ 
handy,” wherewith to push the enemy down in 
case he should resent her attack and climb up to 
expostulate. 

Mrs Gammit had not time to grow sleepy, or 
even impatient, so early did the bear arrive. The 
white pig, disturbed and puzzled by the unwonted 
goings-on above his head, had refused to go to bed. 
He was wandering restlessly up and down the pen, 
when, through the cracks, he saw an awful black 
shadow darken the stable door. He lost not a 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 


167 


second, but lifted his voice at once in one of those 
ear-piercing appeals which had now twice proved 
themselves so effective. 

The bear paused but for a moment, to cast his 
solitary eye over the situation. Mrs. Gammit fairly 
held her breath. Then, almost before she could 
realize what he was doing, he was straight beneath 
her, and clambering into the pen. The white pig’s 
squeals redoubled, electrifying her to action. She 
snatched a steaming bucket from its wrappings, 
and dashed it down upon the vaguely heaving form 
below. 

On the instant there arose a strange, confused, 
terrific uproar, from which the squeals of the white 
pig stood out thin and pathetic. Without waiting 
to see what she had accomplished, Mrs. Gammit 
snatched up the second bucket, and leaned forward 
to deliver a second stroke. Through a cloud of 
steam she saw the bear reaching wildly for the wall 
of the pen, clawing frantically in his eagerness to 
climb over and get away. She had given him a 
lesson, that was clear; but she was resolved to give 
him a good one while she was about it. Swinging 
far forward, she launched her terrible missile 
straight upon his huge hind-quarters just as they 
went over the wall. But at the same moment she 
lost her balance. With an indignant yell she plunged 
downward into the pen. 

It was like Mrs. Gammit, however, that even in 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


1 68 

this dark moment her luck should serve her. She 
landed squarely on the back of the pig. This 
broke her fall, and, strangely enough, did not break 
the pig. The latter, quite frenzied by the accumu- 
lation of horrors heaped upon him, bounced franti- 
cally from beneath her indiscreet petticoats, and 
dashed himself from one side of the pen to the other 
with a violence that threatened to wreck both pig 
and pen. 

Somewhat breathless, but proudly conscious that 
she had won a splendid victory, Mrs. Gammit 
picked herself up and shook herself together. The 
bear had vanished. She eyed with amazement the 
continued gyrations of the pig. 

“Poor dear!” she muttered presently, “some o’ 
the bilin’ water must ’ave slopped on to him! Oh, 
well, I reckon he’ll git over it bime-by. Anyhow, 
it’s a sight better’n being all clawed an’ et up by a 
bear, I reckon!” 

Mrs. Gammit now felt satisfied that this particular 
bear would trouble her no more, and she had 
high hopes that his experience with hot water 
would serve as a lesson to all the other bears with 
whom she imagined herself involved. The sequel 
fulfilled her utmost expectations. The bear, smart- 
ing from his scalds and with all his preconceived 
ideas about women overthrown, betook himself in 
haste to another and remoter hunting-ground. A 
good deal of his hair came off, in patches, and for a 


MRS. GAMMITS PIG 169 

long time he had a rather poor opinion of him- 
self. 

When, for over a week, there had been no more 
raids upon barn or chicken-roost, and no more 
bear-tracks about the garden, Mrs. Gammit knew 
that her victory had been final, and she felt so elated 
that she was even able to enjoy her continuing diet of 
cold turkey. Then, one pleasant morning when a 
fresh, sweet-smelling wind made tumult in the forest, 
she took the gun home to Joe Barron. 

“What luck did ye hev, Mrs. Gammit?” inquired 
the woodsman with interest. 

“I settled them bears, Mr. Barron!” she replied. 
“But it wasn’t the gun as done it. It was bilin’ 
water. I’ve found ye kin always depend on bilin’ 
water !” 

“I hope the gun acted right by you, however!” 
said the woodsman. 

Mrs. Gammit’ s voice took on a tone of reserve. 

“Well, Mr. Barron, I thank ye kindly for the 
loan of the weepon. Ye meant right. But it’s on 
my mind to warn ye. Don’t ye go for to trust 
that gun, or ye’ll live to regret it. It don't hit what 
it's aimed at." 


The Blackwater Pot 


HE lesson of fear was one which Henderson 



T learned late. He learned it well, however, 
when the time came. And it was Blackwater Pot 
that taught him. 

Sluggishly, reluctantly, impotently, the spruce 
logs followed one another round and round the cir- 
cuit of the great stone pot. The circling water 
within the pot was smooth and deep and black, 
but streaked with foam. At one side a gash in the 
rocky rim opened upon the sluicing current of the 
river, which rushed on, quivering and seething, to 
plunge with a roar into the terrific cauldron of the 
falls. Out of that thunderous cauldron, filled with 
huge tramplings and the shriek of tortured torrents, 
rose a white curtain of spray, which every now and 
then swayed upward and drenched the green birches 
which grew about the rim of the pot. For the break 
in the rim, which caught at the passing current and 
sucked it into the slow swirls of Blackwater Pot, 
was not a dozen feet from the lip of the falls. 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


171 

Henderson sat at the foot of a ragged white birch 
which leaned from the upper rim of the pot. He 
held his pipe unlighted, while he watched the logs 
with a half-fascinated stare. Outside, in the river, he 
saw them in a clumsy panic haste, wallowing down 
the white rapids to their awful plunge. When a 
log came close along shore its fate hung for a 
second or two in doubt. It might shoot straight on, 
over the lip, into the wavering curtain of spray and 
vanish into the horror of the cauldron. Or, at the 
last moment, the eddy might reach out stealthily 
and drag it into the sullen wheeling procession within 
the pot. All that it gained here, however, was a 
terrible kind of respite, a breathing-space of agonized 
suspense. As it circled around, and came again to 
the opening by which it had entered, it might con- 
tinue on another eventless revolution, or it might, 
according to the whim of the eddy, be cast forth 
once more, irretrievably, into the clutch of the awful 
sluice. Sometimes two logs, after a pause in what 
seemed like a secret death-struggle, would crowd 
each other out and go over the falls together. 'And 
sometimes, on the other hand, all would make the 
circuit safely again and again. But always, at the 
cleft in the rim of the pot, there was- the moment of 
suspense, the shuddering, terrible panic. 

It was this recurring moment that seemed to fasten 
itself balefully upon Henderson’s imagination, 
so that he forgot to smoke. He had looked into 


172 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


the Blackwater before, but never when there were 
any logs in the pot. Moreover, on this particular 
morning, he was overwrought with weariness. For 
a little short of three days he had been at the utmost 
tension of body, brain, and nerve, in hot but wary 
pursuit of a desperado whom it was his duty, as 
deputy-sheriff of his county, to capture and bring 
to justice. 

This outlaw, a French half-breed, known through 
the length and breadth of the wild backwoods 
county as “Red Pichot,” was the last but one — and 
accounted the most dangerous — of a band which 
Henderson had undertaken to break up. Hender- 
son had been deputy for two years, and owed his 
appointment primarily to his pre-eminent fitness 
for this very task. Unacquainted with fear, he was 
at the same time unrivalled through the backwoods 
counties for his subtle woodcraft, his sleepless en- 
durance, and his cunning. 

It was two years now since he had set his hand 
to the business. One of the gang had been hanged. 
Two were in the penitentiary, on life sentence. Hen- 
derson had justified his appointment to every one 
except himself. But while Pichot and his gross- 
witted tool, “Bug” Mitchell, went unhanged, 
he felt himself on probation, if not shamed. Mitchell 
he despised. But Pichot, the brains of the gang, 
he honoured with a personal hatred that held 
a streak of rivalry. For Pichot, though a beast 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


i73 


for cruelty and treachery, and with the murder of a 
woman on his black record — which placed him, 
according to Henderson’s ideas, in a different 
category from a mere killer of men — was at the same 
time a born leader and of a courage none could 
question. Some chance dash of Scotch Highland 
blood in his mixed veins had set a mop of hot red 
hair above his black, implacable eyes and cruel, dark 
face. It had touched his villainies, too, with an 
imagination which made them the more atrocious. 
And Henderson’s hate for him as a man was mixed 
with respect for the adversary worthy of his 
powers. 

Reaching the falls, Henderson had been forced to 
acknowledge that, once again, Pichot had outwitted 
him on the trail. Satisfied that his quarry was by 
this time far out of reach among the tangled ravines 
on the other side of Two Mountains, he dismissed 
the two tired river-men who constituted his posse, 
bidding them go on down the river to Greensville 
and wait for him. It was his plan to hunt alone for 
a couple of days in the hope of catching his adver- 
sary off guard. He had an ally, unsuspected and 
invaluable, in a long-legged, half-wild youngster 
of a girl, who lived alone with her father in a clearing 
about a mile below the falls, and regarded Hender- 
son with a childlike hero-worship. This shy little 
savage, whom all the Settlement knew as “Baisley’s 
Sis,” had an intuitive knowledge of the wilderness 


174 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


and the trails which rivalled even Henderson’s ac- 
complished woodcraft; and the indomitable deputy 
“set great store,” as he would have put it, by her 
friendship. He would go down presently to the 
clearing and ask some questions of the child. But 
first he wanted to do a bit of thinking. To think the 
better, the better to collect his tired and scattered 
wits, he had stood his Winchester carefully upright 
between two spruce saplings, filled his pipe, lighted 
it with relish, and seated himself under the old birch 
where he could look straight down upon the wheeling 
logs in Blackwater Pot. 

It was while he was looking down into the terrible 
eddy that his efforts to think failed him and his 
pipe went out, and his interest in the fortunes 
of the captive logs gradually took the hold of 
a nightmare upon his overwrought imagination. 
One after one he would mark, snatched in by the 
capricious eddy and held back a little while from 
its doom. Onfc after one he would see crowded out 
again, by inexplicable whim, and hurled on into the 
raging horror of the falls. He fell to personifying 
this captive log or that, endowing it with sentience, 
and imagining its emotions each time it circled 
shuddering past the cleft in the rim, once more 
precariously reprieved. 

At last, either because he was more deeply ex- 
hausted than he knew, or because he had fairly 
dropped asleep with his eyes open and his fantastic 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


*75 


imaginings had slipped into a veritable dream, he felt 
himself suddenly become identified with one of the 
logs. It was one which was just drawing around to 
the fateful cleft. Would it win past once more? 
No ; it was . too far out ! It felt the grasp of the 
outward suction, soft and insidious at first, then re- 
sistless as the falling of a mountain. With straining 
nerves and pounding heart Henderson strove to hold 
it back by sheer will and the wrestling of his 
eyes. But it was no use. Slowly the head of the 
log turned outward from its circling fellows, quivered 
for a moment in the cleft, then shot smoothly forth 
into the sluice. With a groan Henderson came to 
his senses, starting up and catching instinctively 
at the butt of the heavy Colt in his belt. At the same 
instant the coil of a rope settled over his shouldqrs, 
pinioning his arms to his sides, and he was jerked 
backwards with a violence that fairly lifted him 
over the projecting root of the birch. As he fell 
his head struck a stump; and he knew nothing 
more. 

When Henderson came to his senses he found 
himself in a most bewildering position. He was 
lying face downwards along a log, his mouth 
pressed upon the rough bark. His arms and legs 
were in the water, on either side of the log. Other 
logs moved past him sluggishly. For a moment he 
thought himself still in the grip of his nightmare, and 
he struggled to wake himself. The struggle revealed 


176 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


to him that he was bound fast upon the log. At 
this his wits cleared up, with a pang that was more 
near despair than anything he had ever known. 
Then his nerve steadied itself back into its wonted 
control. 

He realized what had befallen him. His enemies 
had back-trailed him and caught him off his guard. 
He was just where, in his awful dream, he had 
imagined himself as being. He was bound to one of 
the logs down in the great stone pot of Blackwater 
Eddy. 

For a second or ■ two the blood in his veins 
ran ice, as he braced himself to feel the log 
lurch out into the sluice and plunge into the 
trampling of the abyss. Then he observed that the 
other logs were overtaking and passing him. His 
log, indeed, was not moving at all. Evidently, 
then, it was being held by some one. He tried to 
look around, but found himself so fettered that he 
could only lift his face a few inches from the log. 
This enabled him to see the whole surface of the eddy 
and the fateful cleft, and out across the raving 
torrents into the white curtain that swayed above 
the cauldron. But he could not, with the utmost 
twisting and stretching of his neck, see more than a 
couple of feet up the smooth stone sides of the 
pot. 

As he strained on his bonds he heard a harsh 
chuckle behind him; and the log, suddenly loosed 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


J 77 


with a jerk which showed him it had been held by 
a pike-pole, began to move. A moment later the 
sharp, steel-armed end of the pike-pole came down 
smartly on the forward end of the log, within a dozen 
inches of Henderson’s head, biting a secure hold. 
The log again came to a stop. Slowly, under pres- 
sure from the other end of the pike-pole, it rolled 
outward, submerging Henderson’s right shoulder, 
and turning his face till he could see all the way up 
the sides of the pot. 

What he saw, on a ledge about three feet above 
the water, was Red Pichot, holding the pike-pole 
and smiling down upon him smoothly. On the rim 
above squatted Bug Mitchell, scowling, and gripping 
his knife as if he thirsted to settle up all scores on 
the instant. Imagination was lacking in Mitchell’s 
make-up; and he was impatient — so far as he dared 
to be — of Pichot’s fantastic procrastinatings. 

When Henderson’s eyes met the evil, smiling 
glance of his enemy they were steady and cold as 
steel. To Henderson, who had always, in every 
situation, felt himself master, there remained now 
no mastery but that of his own will, his own spirit. 
In his estimation there could be no death so dreadful 
but that to let his spirit cower before his adversary 
would be tenfold worse. Helpless though he was, 
in a position that was ignominiously and grotesquely 
horrible, and with the imminence of an appalling 
doom close before his eyes, his nerve never failed 

N 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


178 

him. With cool contempt and defiance he met Red 
Pichot’s smile. 

“I’ve always had an idee/’ said the half-breed, 
presently, in a smooth voice that penetrated the mighty 
vibrations of the falls, “ez how a chap on a log 
could paddle roun’ this yere eddy fer a deuce of 
a while afore he’d hev to git sucked out into the 
sluice !” 

As a theory this was undoubtedly interesting. But 
Henderson made no answer. 

“I’ve held that idee,” continued Pichot, -after a 
civil pause, “though I hain’t never yet found a 
man, nor a woman nuther, as was willin’ to give it 
a fair trial. But I feel sure ye’re the man to 
oblige me. I’ve left yer arms kinder . free, leastways 
from the elbows down, an’ yer legs also, more or 
less, so’s ye’ll be able to paddle easy-like. The 

walls of the pot’s all worn so smooth, below high- 
water mark, there’s nothin’ to ketch on to, so there’ll 
be nothin’ to take off yer attention. I’m hopin’ 
ye’ll give the matter a right fair trial. But ef ye 

gits tired an’ feels like givin’ up, why, don’t con- 
sider my feelin’s. There’s the falls awaitin’. An’ 

I ain’t agoin’ to bear no grudge ef ye don’t quite come 
up to my expectations of ye.” 

As Pichot ceased his measured harangue he 
jerked his pike-pole loose. Instantly the log began 
to forge forward, joining the reluctant procession. 
For a few moments Henderson felt like shutting his 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


179 


eyes and his teeth and letting himself go on with all 
speed to the inevitable doom. Then, with scorn 
of the weak impulse, he changed his mind. To the 
last gasp he would maintain his hold on life, and 
give fortune a chance to save him. When he could 
no longer resist, then it would be Fate’s responsibil- 
ity, not his. The better to fight the awful fight that 
was before him, he put clear out of his mind the 
picture of Red Pichot and Mitchell perched on the 
brink above, smoking, and grinning down upon the 
writhings of their victim. In a moment, as his log 
drew near the cleft, he had forgotten them. There 
was room now in all his faculties for but one impulse, 
one consideration. 

The log to which he was bound was on the extreme 
outer edge of the procession, and Henderson realized 
that there was every probability of its being at once 
crowded out the moment it came to the exit. With 
a desperate effort he succeeded in catching the log 
nearest to him, pushing it ahead, and at last, just 
as they came opposite the cleft, steering his own 
log into its place. The next second it shot quiver- 
ing forth into the sluice, and Henderson, with a sudden 
cold sweat jumping out all over him, circled slowly 
past the awful cleft. A shout of ironical con- 
gratulation came to him from the watchers on 
the brink above. But he hardly heard it, and 
heeded it not at all. He was striving frantically, 
paddling forward with one hand and backward with 


i So 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


the other, to steer his sluggish, deep-floating log 
from the outer to the inner circle. He had already 
observed that to be on the outer edge would mean 
instant doom for him, because the outward 'suction 
was stronger underneath than on the surface, and his 
weighted log caught its force before the others did. 
His arms were so bound that only from the elbows 
down could he move them freely. He did, however, 
by a struggle which left him gasping, succeed in work- 
ing in behind another log — just in time to see 
that log, too, sucked out into the abyss, and himself 
once more on the deadly outer flank of the circling 
procession. 

This time Henderson did not know whether the 
watchers on the brink laughed or not as he won past 
the cleft. He was scheming desperately to devise 
some less exhausting tactics. Steadily and rhyth- 
mically, but with his utmost force, he back-paddled 
with both hands and feet, till the progress of his log 
was almost stopped. Then he succeeded in catch- 
ing yet another log as it passed and manoeuvring 
in behind it. By this time he was halfway around 
the pot again. Yet again, by his desperate back- 
paddling, he checked his progress, and presently, 
by most cunning manipulation, managed to edge in 
behind yet another log, so that when he again came 
round to the cleft there were two logs between him 
and doom. The outermost of these, however, was 
dragged instantly forth into the fury of the sluice, 


/ 


THE BLACKWATER POT 181 

thrust forward, as it was, by the grip of the suction 
upon Henderson’s own deep log. Feeling himself 
on the point of utter exhaustion, he nevertheless con- 
tinued back-paddling, and steering and working 
inward, till he had succeeded in getting three files 
of logs between himself and the outer edge. Then, 
almost blind and with the blood roaring so loud in 
his ears that he could hardly hear the trampling of 
the falls, he hung on his log, praying that strength 
might flow back speedily into his veins and 
nerves. 

Not till he had twice more made the circuit of the 
pot, and twice more seen a log sucked out from 
his very elbow to leap into the white horror of the 
abyss, did Henderson stir. The brief stillness, 
controlled by his will, had rested him for the moment. 
He was cool now, keen to plan, cunning to husband 
his forces. Up to the very last second that he could 
he would maintain his hold on life, counting always 
on the chance of the unexpected. 

With now just one log remaining between him- 
self and death, he let himself go past the cleft, and 
saw that one log go out. Then, being close to the 
wall of the pot, he tried to delay his progress by clutch- 
ing at the stone with his left hand and by drag- 
ging upon it with his foot. But the stone sur- 
face was worn so smooth by the age-long polish- 
ing of the eddy that these efforts availed him little. 
Before he realized it he was almost round again, 


1 82 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


and only by the most desperate struggle did he 
succeed in saving himself. There was no other log 
near by this time for him to seize and thrust forward 
in his place. It was simply a question of his re- 
stricted paddling, with hands and feet, against the 
outward draught of the current. For nearly a 
minute the log hung in doubt just before the opening, 
the current sucking at its head to turn it outward, 
and Henderson paddling against it not only with 
hands and feet, but with every ounce of will and 
nerve that his body contained. At last, inch by 
inch, he conquered. His log moved past the gate 
of death ; and dimly, again, that ironical voice 
came down to him, piercing the roar. 

Once past, Henderson fell to back-paddling again — 
not so violently now — till other logs came by within 
his reach and he could work himself into temporary 
safety behind them. He was soon forced to the 
conviction that if he strove at just a shade under 
his utmost he was able to hold his own and keep one 
log always between himself and the opening. But 
what was now his utmost, he realized, would very 
soon be far beyond his powers. Well, there was 
nothing to do but to keep on trying. Around and 
around, and again and again around the terrible, 
smooth, deliberate circuit he went, sparing himself 
every ounce of effort that he could, and always 
shutting his eyes as the log beside him plunged 
out into the sluice. Gradually, then, he felt him- 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


i83 

self becoming stupefied by the ceaselessly recurring 
horror, with the prolonged suspense between. He 
must sting himself back to the full possession of his 
faculties by another burst of fierce effort. Fiercely 
he caught at log after log, without a let-up, till, luck 
having favoured him for once, he found himself on 
the inner instead of the outer edge of the procession. 
Then an idea flashed into his fast-clouding brain, 
and he cursed himself for not having thought of it 
before. At the very centre of the eddy, of course, 
there must be a sort of core of stillness. By a 
vehement struggle he attained it and avoided crossing 
it. Working gently and warily he kept the log right 
across the axis of the eddy, where huddled a crowd 
of chips and sticks. Here the log turned slowly, 
very slowly, on its own centre; and for a few 
seconds of exquisite relief Henderson let himself 
sink into a sort of lethargy. He was roused by a 
sudden shot, and the spat of a heavy bullet into the 
log about three inches before his head. Even 
through the shaking thunder of the cataract he 
thought he recognized the voice of his own heavy 
Colt; and the idea of that tried weapon being 
turned against himself filled him with childish rage. 
Without lifting his head he lay and cursed, grinding 
his teeth impotently. A few seconds later came 
another shot, and this time the ball went into the 
log just before his right arm. Then he understood, 
and woke up. Pichot was a dead shot. This was 


184 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


his intimation that Henderson must get out into the 
procession again. At the centre of the eddy he was 
not sufficiently entertaining to his executioners. 
The idea of being shot in the head had not greatly 
disturbed him — he had felt as if it would be rather 
restful, on the whole. But the thought of getting 
a bullet in his arm, which would merely disable 
him and deliver him over helpless to the outdraught, 
shook him with something near a panic. He fell to 
paddling with all his remaining strength, and drove 
his log once more into the horrible circuit. The 
commendatory remarks with which Pichot greeted 
this move went past his ears unheard. 

Up to this time there had been a strong sun 
shining down into the pot, and the trees about its 
rim had stood unstirred by any wind. Now, how- 
ever, a sudden darkness settled over everything, 
and sharp, fitful gusts drew in through the cleft, 
helping to push the logs back. Henderson was 
by this time so near fainting from exhaustion that 
his wits were losing their clearness. Only his horror 
of the fatal exit, the raving sluice, the swaying white 
spray-curtain, retained its keenness. As to all else 
he was growing so confused that he hardly realized 
the way those great indrawing gusts, laden with 
spray, were helping him. He was paddling and 
steering and manoeuvring for the inner circuit 
almost mechanically now. When suddenly the 
blackness about him was lit with a blue glare, and 



He was roused by a sudden shot. 





THE BLACKWATER POT 185 

the thunder crashed over the echoing pot with an 
explosion that outroared the falls, he hardly noted it. 
When the skies seemed to open, letting down the 
rain in torrents, with a wind that almost blew it 
level, it made no difference to him. He went on 
paddling dully, indifferent to the bumping of the 
logs against his shoulders. 

But to this fierce storm, which almost bent double 
the trees around the rim of the pot, Red Pichot and 
Mitchell were by no means so indifferent. About 
sixty or seventy yards below the falls they had a snug 
retreat which was also an outlook. It was a cabin 
built in a recess of the wall of the gorge, and to be 
reached only by a narrow pathway easy of defence. 
When the storm broke in its fury Pichot sprang to 
his feet. 

“Let’s git back to the Hole,” he cried to his 
companion, knocking the fire out of his pipe. “We 
kin watch just as well from there, an’ see the beauty 
slide over when his time comes.” 

Pichot led the way off through the straining and 
hissing trees, and Mitchell followed, growling but 
obedient. And Henderson, faint upon his log in 
the raving tumult, knew nothing of their going. 

They had not been gone more than two minutes 
when a drenched little dark face, with black hair 
plastered over it in wisps, peered out from among 
the lashing birches and gazed down anxiously into 
the pot. At the sight of Henderson on his log, 


1 86 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


lying quite close to the edge, and far back from the 
dreadful cleft, the terror in the wild eyes gave way 
to inexpressible relief. The face drew back; and 
an instant later a bare-legged child appeared, carry- 
ing the pike-pole which Pichot had tossed into the 
bushes. Heedless of the sheeting volleys of the 
rain and the fierce gusts which whipped her dripping 
homespun petticoat about her knees, she clambered 
skilfully down the rock wall to the ledge whereon 
Pichot had stood. Bracing herself carefully, she 
reached out with the pike-pole, which, child though 
she was, she evidently knew how to use. 

Henderson was just beginning to recover from 
his daze, and to notice the madness of the storm, 
when he felt something strike sharply on the log 
behind him. He knew it was the impact of a pike 
pole, and he wondered, with a kind of scornful 
disgust, what Pichot could be wanting of him now. 
He felt the log being dragged backwards, then held 
close against the smooth wall of the pot. A moment 
more and his bonds were being cut — but laboriously, 
as if with a small knife and by weak hands. Then 
he caught sight of the hands, which were little 
and brown and rough, and realized, with a great 
burst of wonder and tenderness, that old Baisley’s 
“Sis,” by some miracle of miracles, had come to 
his rescue. In a few seconds the ropes fell apart, 
and he lifted himself, to see the child stooping down 
with anxious adoration in her eyes. 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


187 


"Sis!” he cried. “You!” 

“Oh, Mr. Henderson, come quick!” she panted. 
“They may git back any minit.” And clutch- 
ing him by the shoulder, she tried to pull him up 
by main strength. But Henderson needed no 
urging. Life, with the return of hope, had surged 
back into nerve and muscle; and in hardly more 
time than it takes to tell it, the two had clambered 
side by side to the rim of the pot and darted into 
the covert of the tossing trees. 

No sooner were they in hiding than Henderson 
remembered his rifle and slipped back to get it 
His enemies had not discovered it. It had fallen 
into the moss, but the well-oiled, perfect-fitting 
chamber had kept its cartridges dry. With that 
weapon in his hands Henderson felt himself once 
more master of the situation. Weariness and 
apprehension together slipped from him, and one 
purpose took complete possession of him. He 
would settle with Red Pichot right there, on the 
spot where he had been taught the terrible lesson of 
fear. He felt that he could not really feel himself 
a man again unless he could settle the whole score 
before the sun of that day should set. 

The rain and wind were diminishing now; the 
lightning was a mere shuddering gleam over the 
hill-tops beyond the river; and the thunder no 
longer made itself heard above the trampling of the 
falls. Henderson’s plans were soon laid. Then 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


1 88 

he turned to Sis, who stood silent and motionless 
close at his side, her big, alert, shy eyes watching 
like a hunted deer’s the trail by which Red Pichot 
might return. She was trembling in her heart at 
every moment that Henderson lingered within that 
zone of peril. But she would not presume to suggest 
any move. 

Suddenly Henderson turned to her and laid an 
arm about her little shoulders. 

“You saved my life, kid!” he said, softly. 
“How ever did you know I was down there in that 
hell?” 

“I jest knowed it was you, when I seen Red Pichot 
an’ Bug Mitchell a- trackin’ some one,” answered 
the child, still keeping her eyes on the trail, as if it 
was her part to see that Henderson was not again 
taken unawares. “I knowed it was you, Mister 
Henderson, an’ I followed ’em; an’ oh, I seen it all, 
I seen it all, an’ I most died because I hadn’t no 
gun. But I’d ’ave killed ’em both, some day, sure, 
ef — ef they hadn’t went away! But they’ll be back 
now right quick.” 

Henderson bent and kissed her wet black head, 
saying, “Bless you, kid! You an’ me’ll always be 
pals, I reckon!” 

At the kiss the child’s face flushed, and, for one 
second forgetting to watch the trail, she lifted glow- 
ing eyes to his. But he was already looking 
away. 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


189 

“Come on,” he muttered. “This ain’t no place 
for you an’ me yet.” 

Making a careful circuit through the thick under- 
growth, swiftly but silently as two wild-cats, the 
strange pair gained a covert close beside the trail 
by which Pichot and Mitchell would return to the 
rim of the pot. Safely ambuscaded, Henderson laid 
a hand firmly on the child’s arm, resting it there for 
two or three seconds, as a sign of silence. 

Minute after minute went by in the intense still- 
ness. At last the child, whose ears were even keener 
than Henderson’s, caught her breath with a little 
indrawing gasp and looked up at her companion’s 
face. Henderson understood ; and every muscle 
stiffened. A moment later and he, too, heard the 
oncoming tread of hurried footsteps. Then Pichot 
went by at a swinging stride, with Mitchell skulking 
obediently at his heels. 

Henderson half raised his rifle, and his face turned 
grey and cold like steel. But it was no part of his 
plan to shoot even Red Pichot in the back. From 
the manner of the two ruffians it was plain that they 
had no suspicion of the turn which affairs had taken. 
To them it was as sure as two and two make four 
that Henderson was still on his log in the pot, if he 
had not already gone over into the cauldron. As 
they reached the rim Henderson stepped out into 
the trail behind them, his gun balanced ready like 
a trapshooter’s. 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


190 

As Pichot, on the very brink, looked down into the 
pot and saw that his victim was no longer there, he 
turned to Mitchell with a smile of mingled triumph 
and disappointment. 

But, on the instant, the smile froze on his face. It 
was as if he had felt the cold, grey gaze of Hender- 
son on the back of his neck. Some warning, cer- 
tainly, was flashed to that mysterious sixth sense 
which the people of the wild, man or beast, seem 
sometimes to be endowed with. He wheeled like 
lightning, his revolver seeming to leap up from his 
belt with the same motion. But in the same 
fraction of a second that his eyes met Henderson’s 
they met the white flame-spurt of Henderson’s 
rifle — and then, the dark. 

As Pichot’s body collapsed, it toppled over the 
rim into Blackwater Pot and fell across two moving 
logs. Mitchell had thrown up his hands straight 
above his head when Pichot fell, knowing instantly 
that that was his only hope of escaping the same 
fate as his leader’s. 

One look at Henderson’s face, however, satisfied 
him that he was not going to be dealt with on the 
spot, and he set his thick jaw stolidly. Then his 
eyes wandered down into the pot, following the 
leader whom, in his way, he had loved if ever he had 
loved any one or anything. Fascinated, his stare 
followed the two logs as they journeyed around, 
with Pichot’s limp form, face upwards, sprawled 


THE BLACKWATER POT 


191 

across them. They reached the cleft, turned, and 
shot forth into the raving of the sluice, and a groan 
of horror burst from “Bug’s” lips. By this Hender- 
son knew what had happened, and, to his immeasur- 
able self-scorn, a qualm of remembered fear caught 
sickeningly at his heart. But nothing of this 
betrayed itself in his face or voice. 

“Come on, Mitchell!” he said, briskly. “I’m 
in a hurry. You jest step along in front, an’ see ye 
keep both hands well up over yer head, or ye’ll be 
savin’ the county the cost o’ yer rope. Step out, 
now.” 

He stood aside, with Sis at his elbow, to make 
room. As Mitchell passed, his hands held high, a 
mad light flamed up into his sullen eyes, and he 
was on the point of springing, like a wolf, at his 
captor’s throat. But Henderson’s look was cool 
and steady, and his gun held low. The impulse 
flickered out in the brute’s dull veins. But as he 
glanced at Sis he suddenly understood that it was 
she who had brought all this to pass. His black 
face snarled upon her like a wolf’s at bay, with 
an inarticulate curse more horrible than any 
words could make it. With a shiver the child 
slipped behind Henderson’s back and hid her 
face. 

“Don’t be skeered o’ him, kid, not one little 
mite,” said Henderson, gently. “He ain’t agoin’ 
to trouble this earth no more. An’ I’m goin’ to get 


192 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


yer father a job, helpin' me, down somewheres near 
Greensville — because I couldn’t sleep nights knowin’ 
ye was runnin’ round anywheres near that hell-hole 


The Iron Edge of Winter 

T HE glory of the leaves was gone; the glory of 
the snow was not yet come; and the world, 
smitten with bitter frost, was grey like steel. The 
ice was black and clear and vitreous on the forest 
pools. The clods on the ploughed field, the broken 
hillocks in the pasture, the ruts of the winding back- 
woods road, were hard as iron and rang under the 
travelling hoof. The silent, naked woods, moved 
only by the bleak wind drawing through them from 
the north, seemed as if life had forgotten them. 

Suddenly there came a light thud, thud, thud, with 
a pattering of brittle leaves; and a leisurely rabbit 
hopped by, apparently on no special errand. At 
the first of the sounds, a small, ruddy head with 
bulging, big, bright eyes had appeared at the mouth 
of a hole under the roots of an ancient maple. The 
bright eyes noted the rabbit at once, and peered 
about anxiously to see if any enemy were following. 
There was no danger in sight. 

Within two or three feet of the hole under the 


193 


i 9 4 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


maple the rabbit stopped, sat up as if begging, 
waved its great ears to and fro, and glanced around 
inquiringly with its protruding, foolish eyes. As 
it sat up, it felt beneath its whitey fluff of a tail 
something hard which was not a stone, and promptly 
dropped down again on all fours to investigate. 
Poking its nose among the leaves and scratching with 
its fore-paws, it uncovered a pile of beech-nuts, at 
which it began to sniff. The next instant, with 
a shrill, chattering torrent of invective, a red squirrel 
whisked out from the hole under the maple, and 
made as if to fly in the face of the big, good-natured 
trespasser. Startled and abashed by this noisy 
assault, the rabbit went bounding away over the 
dead leaves and disappeared among the desolate 
grey arches. 

The silence was effectually dispelled. Shrieking 
and scolding hysterically, flicking his long 
tail in spasmodic jerks, and calling the dead 
solitudes to witness that the imbecile intruder had 
uncovered one of his treasure-heaps, the angry 
squirrel ran up and down the trunk for at least two 
minutes. Then, his feelings somewhat relieved by 
this violent outburst, he set himself to gathering 
the scattered nuts and bestowing them in new and 
safer hiding-places. 

In this task he had little regard for convenience, 
and time appeared to be no object whatever. Some 
of the nuts he took over to a big elm fifty paces dis- 


THE IRON EDGE OF WINTER 


i95 


tant, and jammed them one by one, solidly and con- 
scientiously, into the crevices of the bark. Others 
he carried in the opposite direction, to the edge of 
the open where the road ran by. These he hid under 
a stone, where the passing wayfarer might step over 
them, indeed, but would never think of looking for 
them. While he was thus occupied, an old country- 
man slouched by, his heavy boots making a noise on 
the frozen ruts, his nose red with the harsh, un- 
mitigated cold. The squirrel, mounted on a fence 
stake, greeted him with a flood of whistling and shriek- 
ing abuse; and he, not versed in the squirrel tongue, 
muttered to himself half enviously: “ Queer how 
them squur’ls can keep so cheerful in this weather.” 
The tireless little animal followed him along 
the fence rails for perhaps a hundred yards, seeing 
him off the premises and advising him not to return, 
. then went back in high' feather to his task. When 
all the nuts were once more safely hidden but two 
or three, these latter he carried to the top of a stump 
close beside the hole in the maple, and proceeded 
to make a meal. The stump commanded a view 
on all sides; and as he sat up with a nut between 
his little, handlike, clever fore-paws, his shining eyes 
kept watch on every path by which an enemy might 
approach. 

Having finished the nuts, and scratched his ears, 
and jumped twice around on the stump as if he were 
full of erratically acting springs, he uttered his 


196 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


satisfaction in a long, vibrant chir-r-r-r, and started 
to re-enter his hole in the maple-roots. Just at the 
door, however, he changed his mind. For no appar- 
ent reason he whisked about, scurried across the 
ground to the big elm, ran straight up the tall trunk, 
and disappeared within what looked like a mass of 
sticks perched among the topmost branches. 

The mass of sticks was a deserted crow’s nest, 
which the squirrel, not content with one dwelling, 
had made over to suit his own personal needs. He 
had greatly improved upon the architecture of the 
crows, giving the nest a tight roof of twigs and moss, 
and lining the snug interior with fine dry grass and 
soft fibres of cedar-bark. In this secure and softly 
swaying refuge, far above the reach of prowling 
foxes, he curled himself up for a nap after his toil. 

He slept well, but not long; for the red squirrel 
has always something on his mind to see to. In 
less than half an hour he whisked out again in great 
excitement, jumped from branch to branch till he 
was many yards from his own tree, and then 
burst forth into vehement chatter. He must have 
dreamed that some one was rifling his hoards, for 
he ran eagerly from one hiding-place to another 
and examined them all suspiciously. As he had 
at least two-score to inspect, it took him some time; 
but not till he had looked at every one did he seem 
satisfied. Then he grew very angry, and scolded and 
chirruped, as if he thought some one had made a 


THE IRON EDGE OF WINTER 197 

fool of him. That he had made a fool of himself 
probably never entered his confident and self- 
sufficient little head. 

While indulging this noisy volubility he was 
seated on the top of his dining-stump. Suddenly he 
caught sight of something that smote him into silence 
and for the space of a second turned him to stone. 
A few paces away was a weasel, gliding toward 
him like a streak of baleful light. For one second 
only he crouched. Then his faculties returned, and 
launching himself through the air he landed on the 
trunk of the maple and darted up among the branches. 

No less swiftly the weasel followed, hungry, 
bloodthirsty, relentless on the trail. Terrified into 
folly by the suddenness and deadliness of this peril, 
the squirrel ran too far up the tree and was almost 
cornered. Where the branches were small there 
was no chance to swing to another tree. Perceiving 
this mistake, he gave a squeak of terror, then 
bounded madly right over his enemy’s head, and 
was lucky enough to catch foothold far out on a 
lower branch. Recovering himself in an instant, 
he shot into the next tree, and thence to the next 
and the next. Then, breathless from panic rather 
than from exhaustion, he crouched trembling behind 
a branch and waited. 

The weasel pursued more slowly, but inexorably 
as doom itself. He was not so clever at branch- 
jumping as his intended prey, but he was not to be 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


198 

shaken off. In less than a minute he was following 
the scent up the tree wherein the squirrel was hiding; 
and again the squirrel dashed off in his desperate 
flight. Twice more was this repeated, the squirrel 
each time more panic-stricken and with less power 
in nerve or muscle. Then wisdom forsook his brain 
utterly. He fled straight to his elm and darted into 
his nest in the swaying top. The weasel, running 
lithely up the ragged trunk, knew that the chase 
was at an end. From this cul de sac the squirrel 
had no escape. 

But Fate is whimsical in dealing with the wild 
kindreds. She seems to delight in unlooked-for inter- 
ventions. While the squirrel trembled in his dark 
nest, and the weasel, intent upon the first taste of 
warm blood in his throat, ran heedlessly up a bare 
stretch of the trunk, there came the chance which a 
foraging hawk had been waiting for. The hawk, 
too, had been following this breathless chase, but 
ever baffled by intervening branches. Now he 
swooped and struck. His talons had the grip of 
steel. The weasel, plucked irresistibly from his 
foothold, was carried off writhing to make the great 
bird’s feast. And the squirrel, realizing at last that 
the expected doom had been somehow turned aside, 
came out and chattered feebly of his triumph. 


The Grip in Deep Hole 
HE roar of the falls, the lighter and shriller 



T raging of the rapids, had at last died out 
behind the thick masses of the forest, as Barnes 
worked his way down the valley. The heat in the 
windless underbrush, alive with insects, was stifling. 
He decided to make once more for the bank of the 
stream, in the hope that its character might by 
this time have changed, so as to afford him an easier 
and more open path. Pressing aside to his left, 
he presently saw the green gloom lighten before 
him. Blue sky and golden light came low through 
the thinning trees, and then a gleam of unruffled 
water. He was nearing the edge now; and because 
the underbrush was so thick about him he began 
to go cautiously. 

All at once, he felt his feet sinking; and the screen 
of thick bushes before him leaned away as if bowed 
by a heavy gust. Desperately he clutched with 
both hands at the undergrowth and saplings on 
either side; but they all gave way with him. In 


200 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


a smother of leafage and blinding, lashing branches 
he sank downwards — at first, as it seemed, slowly, 
for he had time to think many things while his heart 
was jumping in his throat. Then, shooting through 
the lighter bushy companions of his fall, and still 
clutching convulsively at those upon which he had 
been able to lay his grasp, he plunged feet first 
into a dark water. 

The water was deep and cold. Barnes went 
down straight, and clear under, with a strangled 
gasp. His feet struck, with some force, upon a 
tangled, yielding mass, from which he rose again 
with a spring. His head shot up above the surface, 
above the swirl of foam, leafage, and debris; and 
splutter ingly he gulped his lungs full of air. But 
before he could clear his eyes or his nostrils, or 
recover his self-possession, he was stealthily dragged 
down again. And with a pang of horror he realized 
that he was caught by the foot. 

A powerful swimmer, Barnes struck out mightily 
with his arms and came to the surface again at 
once, rising beyond the shoulders. But by so much 
the more was he violently snatched back again, 
strangling and desperate, before he had time to 
empty his lungs and catch breath. This time the 
shock sobered him, flashing the full peril of the 
situation before his startled consciousness. With 
a tremendous effort of will he stopped his 
struggling, and contented himself with a gentle 


f 





He realized that he was caught by the foot. 















































































































































































































































THE GRIP IN DEEP HOLE 


201 


paddling to keep upright. This time he came more 
softly to the surface, clear beyond the chin. The 
foam and debris and turbulence of little waves 
seethed about his lips, and the sunlight danced con- 
fusingly in his streaming eyes; but he gulped a fresh 
lungful before he again went under. 

Paddling warily now, he emerged again at once, 
and, with arms outspread, brought himself to a 
precarious equilibrium, his mouth just above the 
surface so long as he held his head well back. Keep- 
ing very still, he let his bewildered wits clear, and 
the agitated surface settle to quiet. 

He was in a deep, tranquil cove, hardly stirred 
by an eddy. Some ten paces farther out from 
shore the main current swirled past sullenly, 
as if weary from the riot of falls and rapids. 
Across the current a little space of sand-beach, 
jutting out from the leafy shore, shone golden in 
the sun. Up and down the stream, as far as his 
extremely restricted vision would suffer him to see, 
nothing but thick, overhanging branches, and the 
sullen current. Very cautiously he turned his 
head — though to do so brought the water over his 
lips — and saw behind him just what he expected. 
The high, almost perpendicular bank was scarred 
by a gash of bright, raw, reddish earth, where the 
brink had slipped away beneath his weight. 

Just within reach of his hand lay, half submerged, 
the thick, leafy top of a fallen poplar sapling, its 


202 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


roots apparently still clinging to the bank. Gently 
he laid hold of it, testing it, in the hope that it 
might prove solid enough to enable him to haul 
himself out. But it came away instantly in his 
grasp. And once more, in this slight disturbance 
of his equilibrium, his head went under. 

Barnes was disappointed, but he was now abso- 
lutely master of his self-possession. In a moment 
he had regained the only position in which he could 
breathe comfortably. Then, because the sun was 
beating down too fiercely on the top of his head, he 
carefully drew the bushy top of the poplar sapling 

into such a position that it gave him shade. As its 

roots were still aground, it showed no tendency to 
float off and forsake him in his plight. 

A very little consideration, accompanied by a 
cautious investigation with his free foot, speedily 

convinced Barnes, who was a practical woodsman, 
that the trap in which he found himself caught could 
be nothing else than a couple of interlaced, twisted 
branches, or roots, of some tree which had fallen 
. into the pool in a former caving-in of the bank. 

In that dark deep wherein his foot was held fast, 
his mind’s eye could see it all well enough — the 
water-soaked, brown-green, slimy, inexorable coil, 
which had yielded to admit the unlucky member, 
then closed upon the ankle like the jaws of an otter 
trap. He could feel that grip — not severe, but 
uncompromisingly firm, clutching the joint. As he 


THE GRIP IN DEEP HOLE 


203 


considered, he began to draw comfort, however, 
from the fact that his invisible captor had displayed 
a certain amount of give and take. This elasticity 
meant either that it was a couple of branches slight 
enough to be flexible that held him, or that the sub- 
merged tree itself was a small one, not too stead- 
fastly anchored down. He would free himself easily 
enough, he thought, as soon as he should set himself 
about it coolly and systematically. 

Taking a long breath he sank his head under the 
surface, and peered downward through the amber- 
brown but transparent gloom. Little gleams of 
brighter light came twisting and quivering in from the 
swirls of the outer current. Barnes could not dis- 
cern the bottom of the pool, which was evidently 
very deep; but he could see quite clearly the 
portion of the sunken tree in whose interwoven 
branches he was held. A shimmering golden ray 
fell just on the spot where his foot vanished to 
the ankle between two stout curves of what looked 
like slimy brown cable or sections of a tense snake 
body. 

It was, beyond question, a nasty-looking trap’; 
and Barnes could not blink the fact that he was in 
a tight place. He lifted his face above the surface, 
steadied himself carefully, and breathed deeply and 
quietly for a couple of minutes, gathering strength 
for a swift and vigorous effort. Then, filling his 
lungs very moderately, the better to endure a strain, 


204 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


he stooped suddenly downward, deep into the yellow 
gloom, and began wrenching with all his force at 
those oozy curves, striving to drag them apart. 
They gave a little, but not enough to release the 
imprisoned foot. Another moment, and he had to 
lift his head again for breath. 

After some minutes of rest, he repeated the 
choking struggle, but, as before, in vain. He could 
move the jaws of the trap just enough to encourage 
him a little, but not enough to gain his release. 
Again and again he tried it, again and again to 
fail just as he imagined himself on the verge of suc- 
cess; till at last he was forced, for the moment, 
to acknowledge defeat, finding himself so exhausted 
that he could hardly keep his mouth above water. 
Drawing down a stiffish branch of the sapling, 
he gripped it between his teeth and so held him- 
self upright while he rested his arms. This was 
a relief to nerves as well as muscles, because it 
made his balance, on which he depended for the 
chance to breathe, so much the less precarious. 

As he hung there pondering, held but a bare half- 
inch above drowning, the desperateness of the situa- 
tion presented itself to him in appalling clearness. 
How sunny and warm and safe, to his woods-familiar 
eyes, looked the green forest world about him. No 
sound broke the mild tranquillity of the solitude, 
except, now and then, an elfish gurgle of the slow 
current, or the sweetly cheerful tsic-a-dee-dee of an 


THE GRIP IN DEEP HOLE 


205 


unseen chicadee, or, from the intense blue overhead, 
the abrupt, thin whistle of a soaring fish-hawk. 
To Barnes it all seemed such a safe, friendly world, 
his well-understood intimate since small boyhood. 
Yet here it was, apparently, turned smooth traitor 
at last, and about to destroy him as pitilessly as 
might the most scorching desert or blizzard- 
scourged ice-field. A silent rage burned suddenly 
through all his veins — which was well, since the 
cold of that spring-fed river had already begun to 
finger stealthily about his heart. A delicate little 
pale-blue butterfly, like a periwinkle-petal come to 
life, fluttered over Barnes’s grim, upturned face, 
and went dancing gaily out across the shining water, 
joyous in the sun. In its dancing it chanced to 
dip a hair’s-breadth too low. The treacherous, 
bright surface caught it, held it; and away it swept, 
struggling in helpless consternation against this 
unexpected doom. Before it passed out of Barnes’s 
vision a great trout rose and gulped it down. Its 
swift fate, to Barnes’s haggard eyes, seemed an 
analogue in little to his own. 

But it was not in the woodsman’s fibre to acknow- 
ledge himself actually beaten, either by man or 
fate, so long as there remained a spark in his brain 
to keep his will alive. He presently began searching 
with his eyes among the branches of the poplar 
sapling for one stout enough to serve him as a 
lever. With the right kind of a stick in his hand, 


206 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


he told himself, he might manage to pry apart the 
jaws of the trap and get his foot free. At last 
his choice settled upon a branch that he thought 
would serve his turn. He was just about to 
reach up and break it off, when a slight crack- 
ling in the underbrush across the stream caught 
his ear. 

His woodsman’s instinct kept him motionless as 
he turned his eyes to the spot. In the thick leafage 
there was a swaying, which moved down along the 
bank, but he could not see what was causing it. 
Softly he drew over a leafy branch of the sapling 
till it made him a perfect screen, then he peered up 
the channel to find out what the unseen wayfarer 
was following. 

A huge salmon, battered and gashed from a vain 
struggle to leap the falls, was floating, belly-upward, 
down the current, close to Barnes’s side of the 
stream. A gentle eddy caught it, and drew it into 
the pool. Sluggishly it came drifting down toward 
Barnes’s hidden face. In the twigs of the poplar 
sapling it came to a halt, its great scarlet gills barely 
moving as the last of life flickered out of it. 

Barnes now understood quite well that unseen 
commotion which had followed, along shore, the 
course of the dying salmon. It was no surprise to 
him whatever when he saw a huge black bear 
emerge upon the yellow sandspit and stand staring 
across the current. Apparently, it was staring 


THE GRIP IN DEEP HOLE 207 

straight at Barnes’s face, upturned upon the surface 
of the water. But Barnes knew it was staring at 
the dead salmon. His heart jumped sickeningly 
with sudden hope, as an extravagant notion flashed 
into his brain. Here was his rescuer — a perilous 
one, to be sure — vouchsafed to him by some whim 
of the inscrutable forest-fates. 

He drew down another branchy twig before his 
face, fearful lest his concealment should not be ade- 
quate. But in his excitement he disturbed his 
balance, and with the effort of his recovery the water 
swirled noticeably all about him. His heart sank. 
Assuredly, the bear would take alarm at this and be 
afraid to come for the fish. 

But to his surprise the great beast, which had 
seemed to hesitate, plunged impetuously into the 
stream. Nothing, according to a bear’s knowledge 
of life, could have made that sudden disturbance in 
the pool but some fish-loving otter or mink, intent 
upon seizing the booty. Indignant at the prospect 
of being forestalled by any such furtive marauder, 
the bear hurled himself forward with such force that 
the spray flew high into the branches, and the noise 
of his splashing was a clear notification that tres- 
passers and meddlers had better keep off. That 
salmon was his, by right of discovery; and he was 
going to have it. 

The bear, for all the seeming clumsiness of his 
bulk, was a redoubtable swimmer; and almost 


208 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


before Barnes had decided clearly on his proper 
course of action those heavy, grunting snorts and 
vast expulsions of breath were at his ear. Enor- 
mously loud they sounded, shot thus close along the 
surface of the water. Perforce, Barnes made up his 
mind on the instant. 

The bunch of twigs which had arrested the pro- 
gress of the floating salmon lay just about an arm’s 
length from Barnes’s face. Swimming high, his 
mighty shoulders thrusting up a wave before him 
which buried Barnes’s head safely from view, the 
bear reached the salmon. Grabbing it triumphantly 
in his jaws, he turned to make for shore again. 

This was Barnes’s moment. Both arms shot 
out before him. Through the suffocating confusion 
his clutching fingers encountered the bear’s haunches. 
Sinking into the long fur, they closed upon it with 
a grip of steel. Then, instinctively, Barnes shut his 
eyes and clenched his teeth, and waited for the shock, 
while his lungs felt as if they would burst in another 
moment. 

But it was no long time he had to wait — perhaps 
two seconds, while amazement in the bear’s brain 
translated itself through panic into action. Utterly 
horrified by this inexplicable attack, from the rear 
and from the depths, the bear threw himself shoulder 
high from the water, and hurled himself forward 
with all his strength. Barnes felt those tremendous 
haunches heaving irresistibly beneath his clutching 


THE GRIP IN DEEP HOLE 


209 


fingers. He felt himself drawn out straight, and 
dragged ahead till he thought his ankle would snap. 
Almost he came to letting go, to save the ankle. But 
he held on, as much with his will as with his grip. 
Then, the slimy thing in the depths gave way. He 
felt himself being jerked through the water — free. 
His fingers relaxed their clutch on the bear’s fur — 
and he came to the surface, gasping, blinking, and 
coughing. 

For a moment or two he paddled softly, recover- 
ing his breath and shaking the water from nostrils 
and eyes. He had an instant of apprehensiveness, 
lest the bear should turn upon him and attack him 
at a disadvantage; and by way of precaution he 
gave forth the most savage and piercing yell that 
his labouring lungs were capable of. But he saw 
at once that on this score he had nothing to fear. It 
was a well-frightened bear, there swimming frantically 
for the sandspit; while the dead salmon, quite 
forgotten, was drifting slowly away on the sullen 
current. 

Barnes’s foot was hurting fiercely, but his heart 
was light. Swimming at leisure, so as to just keep 
head against the stream, he watched the bear scuttle 
out upon the sand. Once safe on dry land, the great 
beast turned and glanced back with a timid air to 
see what manner of being it was that had so astound- 
ingly assailed him. Man he had seen before — but 
never man swimming like an otter; and the sight 


210 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


was nothing to reassure him. One longing look he 
cast upon the salmon, now floating some distance 
away; but that, to his startled mind, was just a lure 
of this same terrifying and perfidious creature 
whose bright grey eyes were staring at him so 
steadily from the surface of the water. He turned 
quickly and made off into the woods, followed by 
a loud, daunting laugh which spurred his pace to a 
panicky gallop. 

When he was gone, Barnes swam to the sandspit. 
There he wrung out his dripping clothes, and lay 
down in the hot sand to let the sun soak deep into 
his chilled veins. 


The Nest of the Mallard 


W HEN the spring freshet went down, and the 
rushes sprang green all about the edges of the 
shallow, marshy lagoons, a pair of mallards took 
possession of a tiny, bushy island in the centre of 
the broadest pond. Moved by one of those in- 
explicable caprices which keep most of the wild 
kindreds from too perilous an enslavement to 
routine, this pair had been attracted by the vast, 
empty levels of marsh and mere, and had dropped 
out from the ranks of their northward- journey- 
ing comrades. Why should they beat on through 
the raw, blustering spring winds to Labrador, 
when here below them was such a nesting-place 
as they desired, with solitude and security and 
plenty. The flock went on, obeying an ances- 
tral summons. With heads straight out before, 
and rigid, level necks — with web feet folded like 
fans and stretched straight out behind, rigid and 
level — they sped through the air on short, powerful, 
swift-beating wings at the rate of sixty or seventy 


211 


212 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


miles an hour. Their flight, indeed, and their ter- 
rific speed were not unlike those of some strange 
missile. The pair who had dropped behind paid no 
heed to their going; and in two minutes they had 
faded out against the pale saffron morning sky. 

These two were the only mallards in this whole 
wide expanse of grass and water. Other kinds of 
ducks there were, in plenty, but the mallards at this 
season kept to themselves. The little island which 
they selected for their peculiar domain was so 
small that no other mating couples intruded upon 
its privacy. It was only about ten feet across; 
but it bore a favourable thicket of osier-willow, and 
all around it the sedge and bulrush reared an impene- 
trable screen. Its highest point was about two 
feet above average water level; and on this highest 
point the mallard duck established her nest. 

The nest was a mere shallow pile of dead leaves 
and twigs and dry sedges, scraped carelessly to- 
gether. But the inside was not careless. It was 
a round smooth hollow, most softly lined with down 
from the duck’s own breast. When the first pale, 
greenish-tinted egg was laid in the nest, there was 
only a little of this down; but the delicate and warm 
lining accumulated as the pale green eggs increased 
in number. 

In the construction of the nest and the accumula- 
tion of the eggs no interest whatever was displayed 
by the splendid drake. He never, unless by chance, 


THE NEST OF THE MALLARD 


213 


went near it. But as a lover the lordly fellow was 
most gallant and ardent. While his mate was on 
the nest laying, he was usually to be seen floating 
on the open mere beyond the reed-fringe, pruning his 
plumage in the cold pink rays of the first of the sun- 
rise. 

It was plumage well worth pruning, this of his, 
and fully justified his pride in it. The shining, silken, 
iridescent dark green of the head and neck; the 
snowy, sharply defined, narrow collar of white, 
dividing the green of the neck from the brownish 
ash of the back and the gorgeous chestnut of the 
breast; the delicate pure grey of the belly finely pen- 
cilled with black lines; the rich, glossy purple 
of the broad wing-bars shot with green reflections; 
the jaunty, recurved black feathers of the tail; 
the smart, citron-yellow of the bill and feet; — all 
these charms were ample excuse for his coxcombry 
and continual posings. They were ample excuse, 
too, for the admiration bestowed upon him by his 
mottled brown mate, whose colours were obviously 
designed not for show but for concealment. When 
sitting on her nest, she was practically indistinguish- 
able from the twigs and dead leaves that surrounded 
her. 

Having laid her egg, the brown duck would cover 
the precious contents of the nest with twigs and leaves, 
that they might not be betrayed by their con- 
spicuous colour. Then she would steal, silently 


214 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


as a shadow, through the willow stems to the water’s 
edge, and paddle cautiously out through the rushes 
to the open water. On reaching her mate all this 
caution would be laid aside, and the two would set 
up an animated and confidential quacking. They 
would sometimes sail around each other slowly in 
circles, with much arching of necks and quaint stiff 
bowing of heads; and sometimes they would chase 
each other in scurrying, flapping rushes along the 
bright surface of the water. Both before and after 
these gay exercises they would feed quietly in the 
shallows, pulling up water-weed sprouts and tender 
roots, or sifting insects and little shellfish from the 
mud by means of the sensitive tips and guttered 
edges of their bills. The mallard pair had few enemies 
to dread, their island being so far from shore that no 
four-footed marauder, not even the semi-amphibious 
mink himself, ever visited it. And the region was 
one too remote for the visits of the pot-hunter. In 
fact, there was only one foe against whom it behoved 
them to be on ceaseless guard. This was that blood- 
thirsty and tireless slayer, the goshawk, or great 
grey henhawk. Where that grim peril was con- 
cerned, the brown duck would take no risks. For 
the sake of those eggs among the willow stems, she 
held her life very dear, never flying more than a short 
circle around the island to stretch her wings, never 
swimming or feeding any distance from the safe covert 
of the rushes. 


THE NEST OF THE MALLARD 215 


But with the glowing drake it was different. 
High spirited, bold for all his wariness, and magnifi- 
cently strong of wing, from sheer restlessness he 
occasionally flew high above the ponds. And one 
day, when some distance from home, the great hawk 
saw him and swooped down upon him from aerial 
heights. 

The impending doom caught the drake’s eye in 
time for him to avoid the stroke of that irresistible 
descent. His short wings, with their muscles of 
steel, winnowed the air with sudden, tremendous 
force, and he shot ahead at a speed which must 
have reached the rate of a hundred miles an 
hour. When the swooping hawk had rushed 
down to his level, he was nearly fifty yards in 
the lead. 

In such a case most of the larger hawks would 
have given up the chase, and soared again to abide 
the chance for a more fortunate swoop. But not 
so the implacable goshawk. His great pinions were 
capable not only of soaring and sailing and swooping, 
but of the rapid and violent flapping of the short- 
winged birds; and he had at his command a speed 
even greater than that of the rushing fugitive. 
As he pursued, his wings tore the air with a strident, 
hissing noise; and the speed of the drake seemed 
as nothing before that savage, inescapable onrush. 
Had the drake been above open water, he would 
have hurled himself straight downward, and seized 


2l6 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


the one chance of escape by diving; but beneath 
him at this moment there was nothing but naked 
swamp and sloppy flats. In less than two minutes 
the hiss of the pursuing wings was close behind him. 
He gave a hoarse squawk, as he realized that doom 
had overtaken him. Then one set of piercing 
talons clutched his outstretched neck, cutting clean 
through his wind-pipe; and another set bit deep 
into the glossy chestnut of his breast. 

For several days the widowed duck kept calling 
loudly up and down the edges of the reeds — but at 
a safe distance from the nest. When she went to 
lay, she stayed ever longer and longer on the eggs, 
brooding them. Three more eggs she laid after 
the disappearance of her mate, and then, having 
nine in the nest, she began to sit; and the open water 
beyond the reed fringes saw her no more. 

At first she would slip off the nest for a few minutes 
every day, very stealthily, to feed and stretch and 
take a noiseless dip in the shallow water among the 
reeds; but as time went on she left the eggs only 
once in two days. Twice a day she would turn the 
eggs over carefully, and at the same time change 
their respective positions in the nest, so that those 
which had been for some hours in the centre, close 
to her hot and almost naked breast, might take their 
turn in the cooler space just under her wings. By 
this means each egg got its fair share of heat, 
properly distributed, and the little life taking 


THE NEST OF THE MALLARD 217 

shape within escaped the distortion which might 
have been caused by lying too long in one position. 
Whenever the wary brown mother left the nest, she 
covered the eggs with down, now, which kept the 
warmth in better than leaves could. And whenever 
she came back from her brief swim, her dripping 
feathers supplied the eggs with needed moisture. 

It is a general law that the older an egg is the longer 
it takes to hatch. The eggs of the mallard mother, 
of course, varied in age from fifteen days to one 
before she began to sit. This being the case, at 
the end of the long month of incubation they would 
have hatched at intervals covering in all, per- 
haps, a full day and a half; and complications 

would have arisen. But the wise mother had coun- 
teracted the working of the law by sitting a little while 
every day. Therefore, as a matter of fact, the 

older eggs got the larger share of the brooding, in 
exact proportion; and the building of the little 

lives within the shells went on with almost perfect 
uniformity. 

During the long, silent month of her patient 
brooding, spring had wandered away and summer 
had spread thick green and yellow lily blooms all 
over the lonely meres. A bland but heavy heat came 
down through the willow tops, so that the brown 
duck sometimes panted at her task, and sat with 
open bill, or with wings half raised from the eggs. 
Then, one night, she heard faint tappings and 


2l8 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


peepings beneath her. Sturdy young bills be- 
gan chipping at the inside of the shells, speedily 
breaking them. Each duckling, as he chipped the 
shell just before the tip of his beak, would turn a 
little way around in his narrow quarters; till pres- 
ently the shell would fall apart, neatly divided into 
halves; and the wet duckling, tumbling forth, would 
snuggle up against the mother’s hot breast and 
thighs to dry. Whenever this happened, the wise 
mother would reach her head beneath, and fit the 
two halves of shell one within the other, or else thrust 
them out of the nest entirely, lest they should 
get slipped over another egg and smother the 
occupant. Sometimes she fitted several sets of 
the empty shells together, that they might take 
up less room; and altogether she showed that she 
perfectly understood her business. Then, late in 
the morning, when the green world among the 
willows and rushes was still and warm and sweet, 
she led her fluffy, sturdy brood straight down to the 
water, and taught them to feed on the insects that 
clung to the bulrush stalks. 


Mrs. Gammit and the Porcupines 

“ T HAIN’T come to borry yer gun, Mr. Barron, 
-*• *but to ax yer advice.” 

Mrs. Gammit’s rare appearances were always 
abrupt, like her speech; and it was without sur- 
prise — though he had not seen her for a month or 
more — that Joe Barron turned to greet her. 

“It’s at yer sarvice, jest as the gun would be ef 
ye wanted it, Mrs. Gammit — art welcome ! But 
come in an’ set down an’ git cooled off a mite. ’Tain’t 
no place to talk, out here in the bilin’ sun.” 

Mrs. Gammit seated herself on the end of the bench, 
just inside the kitchen door, twitched off her limp, 
pink cotton sunbonnet, and wiped her flushed 
face with the sleeve of her calico waist. Quite 
unsubdued by the heat and moisture of the noon- 
day sun, under which she had tramped nine miles 
through the forest, her short, stiff, grey hair stood 
up in irregular tufts above her weather-beaten 
forehead. Her host, sitting sidewise on the edge 
of the table so that he could swing one leg freely and 
219 


220 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


spit cleanly through the open window, bit off 
a contemplative quid of “blackjack” tobacco, and 
waited for her to unfold the problems that troubled 
her. 

Mrs. Gammit’s rugged features were modelled 
to fit an expression of vigorous, if not belligerent, 
self-confidence. She knew her capabilities, well- 
tried in some sixty odd years of unprotected spinster- 
hood. Merit alone, not matrimony, it was, that 
had crowned this unsullied spinsterhood with the 
honorary title of “Mrs.” Her massive and ener- 
getic nose was usually carried somewhat high, in a 
not unjustifiable scorn of such foolish circumstance 
as might seek to thwart her will. 

But to-day these strenuous features found them- 
selves surprised by an expression of doubt, of 
bewilderment, almost one might say of humility. 
At her little clearing in the heart of the great wilder- 
ness things had been happening which, to her 
amazement, she could not understand. Hitherto 
she had found an explanation, clear at least to 
herself, for everything that befell her in these silent 
backwoods which other folks seemed to find so 
absurdly mysterious. Armed with her self-con- 
fidence she had been able, hitherto, to deal with 
every situation that had challenged her, and in a 
manner quite satisfactory to herself, however the 
eternal verities may have smiled at it. But now, 
at last, she was finding herself baffled. 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 221 


Joe Barron waited yvith the patience of the back- 
woodsman and the Indian, to whom, as to Nature 
herself, time seems no object, though they always 
somehow manage to be on time. Mrs. Gammit 

continued to fan her hot face with her sunbonnet, 

and to ponder her problems, while the lines deepened 
between her eyes. A big black and yellow wasp 
buzzed angrily against the window-pane, bewildered 
because it could not get through the transparent 
barrier. A little grey hen, with large, drooping 
comb vividly scarlet, hopped on to the doorsill, 
eyed Mrs. Gammit with surprise and disapproba- 
tion, and ran away to warn the rest of the flock that 

there was a woman round the place. That, as they 

all knew by inheritance from the “shooings” 
which their forefathers had suffered, meant that they 
would no longer be allowed in the kitchen to pick 
up crumbs. 

At last Mrs. Gammit spoke — but with difficulty, 
for it came hard to her to ask advice of any one. 

“I sp’ose now, mebbe, Mr. Barron, you know more 
about the woods critters’n what I do?” she inquired, 
hopefully but doubtfully. 

The woodsman lifted his eyebrows in some surprise 
at the question. 

“Well, now, if I don’t I’d oughter ,” said he, “seein’ 
as how I’ve kinder lived round amongst ’em all my 
life. If I know anything , it’s the backwoods an’ 
all what pertains to that same!” 


222 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


“Yes, you’d oughter know more about them 
than I do!” assented Mrs. Gammit, with a touch of 
severity which seemed to add “and see that you do!” 
Then she shut her mouth firmly and fell to fan- 
ning herself again, her thoughts apparently far 
away. 

“I hope ’tain’t no serious trouble ye’re in!” 
ventured her host presently, with the amiable in- 
tention of helping her to deliver her soul of its 
burden. 

But, manlike, he struck the wrong note. 

“Do you suppose,” snapped Mrs. Gammit, “I’d 
be traipsin’ over here nine mile thro’ the hot woods 
to ax yer advice, Mr. Barron, if ’ twarrCt serious?” 
And she began to regret that she had come. Men 
never did understand anything, anyway. 

At this sudden acerbity the woodsman stroked his 
chin with his hand, to hide the ghost of a smile which 
flickered over his lean mouth. 

“Jest like a woman, to git riled over nawthin’!” 
he thought. “Sounds kinder nice an’ homey, too!” 
But aloud, being always patient with the sex, he said 
coaxingly — 

“Then it’s right proud I am that ye should come 
to me about it, Mrs. Gammit. I reckon I kin help 
you out, mebbe. What’s wrong?” 

With a burst of relief Mrs. Gammit declared her 
sorrow. 

“It’s the aigs,” said she, passionately. “Fer 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 223 

nigh on to a month, now, I’ve been alosin’ of ’em 
as fast as the hens kin git ’em laid. An’ all I kin do, 
I cain’t find out what’s atakin’ ’em.” 

Having reached the point of asking advice, an 
expression of pathetic hopefulness came into her 
weather-beaten face. Under quite other conditions 
it might almost have been possible for Mrs. Gammit 
to learn to lean on a man, if he were careful not to 
disagree with her. 

“Oh! Aigs!” said the woodsman, relaxing 
slightly the tension of his sympathy. “Well, now, 
let’s try an’ git right to the root of the trouble. 
Air ye plumb sure, in the first place, that the 
hens is really layin ’ them aigs what ye don’t 
git?” 

Mrs. Gammit stiffened. 

“Do I look like an eejut?” she demanded. 

“Not one leetle mite, you don’t!” assented her 
host, promptly and cordially. 

“I was beginning to think mebbe I did!” per- 
sisted the injured lady. 

“Everybody knows,” protested the woodsman, 
“as how what you don’t know, Mrs. Gammit, ain’t 
hardly wuth knowin’.” 

“O’ course, that’s puttin’ it a leetle too strong, 
Mr. Barron,” she answered, much mollified. “But 
I do reckon as how I’ve got some horse sense. Well, 
I thought as how them ’ere hens might ’ave stopped 
layin’ on the suddint; so I up an’ watched ’em. 


224 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


Land’s sakes, but they was alayin’ fine. Whenever 
I kin take time to stan’ right by an’ watch ’em lay, I 
git all the aigs I know what to do with. But when 
I don’t watch ’em, dost — nary an aig. Ye ain’t 
agoin’ to persuade me a hen kin jest quit layin’ when 
she’s a mind ter, waitin’ tell ye pass her the com- 
pliment o’ holdin’ out yer hand fer the aig!” 

“There’s lots o’ hens that pervarted they’ll 
turn round an’ eat their own aigs!” suggested the 
woodsman, spitting thoughtfully through the open 
window. The cat, coiled in the sun on a log out- 
side, sprang up angrily, glared with green eyes at 
the offending window, and scurried away to cleanse 
her defiled coat. 

“Them’s not my poultry!” said Mrs. Gammit 
with decision. “I thought o’ that, too. An’ I 
watched ’em on the sly. But they hain’t a one of 
’em got no sech onnateral tricks. When they’re 
through layin’, they jest hop off an’ run away acac- 
klin’, as they should.” And she shook her head heav- 
ily, as one almost despairing of enlightenment. “No, 
ef ye ain’t got no more idees to suggest than that, 
I might as well be goin’.” 

“Oh, I was jest kinder clearin’ out the under- 
brush, so’s to git a square good look at the situation,” 
explained Barron. “Now, I kin till ye somethin’ 
about it. Firstly, it’s a weasel, bein’ so sly, an’ 
quick, an’ audashus! Ten to one, it’s a weasel; 
an’ ye’ve got to trap it. Secondly, if ’tain’t a weasel, 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 


225 


it’s a fox, an’ a mighty cute fox, as ye’re goin’ to have 
some trouble in aketchin’. An’ thirdly — an’ lastly — 
if ’tain’t neither weasel nor fox, it’s jest bound to be 
an extra cunnin’ skunk, what’s takin’ the trouble 
to be keerful. Generally speakin’, skunks ain’t 
keerful, because they don’t have to be, nobody 
wantin’ much to fool with ’em. But onc’t in a 
while ye’ll come across’t one that’s as sly as a 
weasel.” 

“Oh, ’tain’t none o’ them!” said Mrs. Gammit, 
in a tone which conveyed a poor opinion of her host’s 
sagacity and woodcraft. “I’ve suspicioned the 
weasels, an’ the foxes, an’ the woodchucks, but hain’t 
found a sign o’ any one of ’em round the place. An’ 
as fer skunks — well, I reckon, I’ve got a nose 
on my face.” And to emphasize the fact, she 
sniffed scornfully. 

“ To be sure ! An’ a fine, handsome nose it is, Mrs. 
Gammit!” replied the woodsman, diplomatically. 
“But what you don't appear to know about skunks 
is that when they’re up to mischief is jest the 
time when you don’t smell ’em. Ye got to bear 
that in mind!” 

Mrs. Gammit looked at him with suspi- 
cion. 

“Be that reelly so?” demanded she, sternly. 

“True’s gospel!” answered Barron. “A skunk 
ain’t got no smell unless he’s a mind to.” 

“Well,” said she, “I guess it ain’t no skunk, any- 
Q 


226 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


how. I kind o’ feel it in my bones ’tain’t no skunk, 
smell or no smell.” 

The woodsman looked puzzled. He had not 
imagined her capable of such unreasoning obstinacy. 
He began to wonder if he had overrated her in- 
telligence. 

“Then I give it up, Mrs. Gammit,” said he, with 
an air of having lost all interest in the problem. 

But that did not suit his visitor at all. Her 
manner became more conciliatory. Leaning forward, 
with an almost coaxing look on her face, she mur- 
mured — 

“I’ve had an idee as how it might be — mind, I 

don’t say it is, but jest it might be ” and she 

paused dramatically. 

“Might be what?” inquired Barron, with reviv- 
ing interest. 

“ Porkypines ! ” propounded Mrs. Gammit, with 
a sudden smile of triumph. 

Joe Barron neither spoke nor smiled. But in 
his silence there was something that made Mrs. 
Gammit uneasy. 

“Why not porkypines?” she demanded, her face 
once more growing severe. 

“It might be porkypines as took them aigs o’ yourn, 
Mrs. Gammit, an’ it might be humbly -bees /” responded 
Barron. “But ’tain’ t likely !” 

Mrs. Gammit snorted at the sarcasm. 

“Mebbe,” she sneered, “ye kin tell me why 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 227 


it's so impossible it could be porkypines. I seen a 
big porkypine back o’ the barn, only yestiddy. An’ 
that’s more’n kin be said o’ yer weasels, an’ foxes, 
an’ skunks, what ye’re so sure about, Mr. Barron.” 

“A porkypine ain’t necessarily after aigs jest 
because he’s back of a barn,” said the woodsman. 
“An’ anyways, a porkypine don’t eat aigs. He hain’t 
got the right kind o’ teeth fer them kind o’ vittles. 
He’s got to have something he kin gnaw on, some- 
thin’ substantial an’ solid — the which he prefers a 
young branch o’ good tough spruce, though it do 
make his meat kinder strong. No, Mrs. Gammit, it 
ain’t no porkypine what’s stealin’ yer aigs, take my 
word fer it. An’ the more I think o’ it the surer I 
be that it’s a weasel. When a weasel learns to suck 
aigs, he gits powerful cute. Ye’ll have to be right 
smart, I’m telling ye, to trap him.” 

During this argument of Barron’s his obstinate 
and offended listener had become quite convinced 
of the justice of her own conclusions. The sar- 
casm had settled it. She knew , now, that she 
had been right all along in her suspicion of the porcu- 
pines. And with this certainty her indignation 
suddenly disappeared. It is such a comfort to be 
certain. So now, instead of flinging his ignorance in 
his face, she pretended to be convinced — remember- 
ing that she needed his advice as to how to trap the 
presumptuous porcupine. 

“Well, Mr. Barron,” said she, with the air of one 


228 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


who would take defeat gracefully, “supposin’ ye’re 
right — an’ ye’d oughter know — how would ye go 
about ketchirt them weasels?” 

Pleased at this sudden return to sweet reasonable- 
ness, the woodsman once more grew interested. 

“I reckon we kin fix that!” said he, confidently 
and cordially. “I’ll give ye three of my little mink 
traps. There’s holes, I reckon, under the back an’ 
sides o’ the shed, or barn, or wherever it is that the 
hens have their nests?” 

“Nat’rally!” responded Mrs. Gammit. “The 
thieves ain’t agoin’ to come in by the front doors, 
right under my nose, be they?” 

“Of course,” assented the woodsman. “Well, 
you jest set them ’ere traps in three o’ them holes, 
well under the sills an’ out o’ the way. Don’t go fer 
to bait ’em, mind, or Mr. Weasel ’ll git to suspicionin’ 
somethin’, right off. Jest sprinkle bits of straw, 
an’ hayseed, an’ sech rubbish over ’em, so it all looks 
no ways out o’ the ordinary. You do this right, 
Mrs. Gammit; an’ first thing ye know ye’ll have yer 
thief. I’ll git the traps right now, an’ show ye how 
to set ’em.” 

And as Mrs. Gammit walked away with the three 
steel traps under her arm, she muttered to herself — 

“Yes, Joe Barron, an’ I’ll show ye the thief. An’ 
he’ll have quills on him, sech as no weasel ain’t never 
had on him, I reckon.” 

On her return, Mrs. Gammit was greeted by -the 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 229 

sound of high excitement among the poultry. They 
were all cackling wildly, and craning their necks to 
stare into the shed as if they had just seen a ghost 
there. Mrs. Gammit ran in to discover what all the 
fuss was about. The place was empty; but a smashed 
egg lay just outside one of the nests, and a generous 
tuft of fresh feathers showed her that there had been 
a tussle of some kind. Indignant but curious, Mrs. 
Gammit picked up the feathers, and examined them 
with discriminating eyes to see which hen had suf- 
fered the loss. 

“Lands sakes!” she exclaimed presently, “ef ’tain’t 
the old rooster ! He’s made a fight fer that ’ere aig ! 
Lucky he didn’t git stuck full o’ quills!” 

Then, for perhaps the hundredth time, she ran 
fiercely and noisily behind the barn, in the hope of 
surprising the enemy. Of course she surprised nothing 
which Nature had endowed with even the merest 
apology for eyes and ears; and a cat-bird in the choke- 
cherry bushes squawked at her derisively. Stealth 
was one of the things which Mrs. Gammit did 
not easily achieve. Staring defiantly about her, 
her eyes fell upon a dark, bunchy creature in the 
top of an old hemlock at the other side of the fence. 
Seemingly quite indifferent to her vehement existence, 
and engrossed in its own affairs, it was crawling out 
upon a high branch and gnawing, in a casual way, 
at the young twigs as it went. 

“Ah, ha! What did I tell ye? I knowed all 


2 30 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


along as how it was a porkypine!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Gammit, triumphantly, as if Joe Barron could hear 
her across eight miles of woods. Then, as she eyed 
the imperturbable animal on the limb above her, her 
face flushed with quick rage, and snatching up a stone 
about the size of her fist she hurled it at him with 
all her strength. 

In a calmer moment she would never have done 
this — not because it was rude, but because she had 
a conviction, based on her own experience, that a 
stone would hit anything rather than what it was 
aimed at. And in the present instance she found no 
reason to change her views on the subject. The 
stone did not hit the porcupine. It did not, even 
for one moment, distract his attention from the 
hemlock twigs. Instead of that, it struck a low 
branch, on the other side of the tree, and bounced 
back briskly upon Mrs. Gammit’s toes. 

With a hoarse squeak of surprise and pain the 
good lady jumped backwards, and hopped for some 
seconds on one foot while she gripped the other with 
both hands. It was a sharp and disconcerting 
blow. As the pain subsided a concentrated fury 
took its place. The porcupine was now staring down 
at her, in mild wonder at her inexplicable gyrations. 
She glared up at him, and the tufts of grey hair about 
her sunbonnet seemed to rise and stand rigid. 

“Ye think ye’re smart!” she muttered through 
her set teeth. “But I’ll fix ye fer that! Jest you 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 231 

wait!” And turning on her heel she stalked back 
to the house. The big, brown teapot was on the 
back of the stove, wherejt had stood since breakfast, 
with a brew rust-red and bitter-strong enough to 
tan a moose-hide. Not until she had reheated it 
and consumed five cups, sweetened with molasses, 
did she recover any measure of self-complacency. 

That same evening, when the last of the sunset was 
fading in pale violet over the stump pasture and her 
two cow-bells were tonk-tonking softly along the 
edge of the dim alder swamp, Mrs. Gammit stealthily 
placed the traps according to the woodsman’s direc- 
tions. Between the massive logs which formed the 
foundations of the barn and shed, there were open- 
ings numerous enough, and some of them spacious 
enough, almost, to admit a bear — a very small, 
emaciated bear. Selecting three of these, which 
somehow seemed to her fancy particularly adapted 
to catch a porcupine’s taste, she set the traps, 
tied them, and covered them lightly with fine rubbish 
so that, as she murmured to herself when all was done, 
“ everythin’ looked as nat’ral as nawthin’.” Then, 
when her evening chores were finished, she betook 
herself to her slumbers, in calm confidence that in the 
morning she would find one or more porcupines in 
the trap. 

Having a clear conscience and a fine appetite, in 
spite of the potency of her tea Mrs. Gammit slept 
soundly. Nevertheless, along toward . dawn, in that 


232 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


hour when dream and fact confuse themselves, her 
nightcapped ears became aware of a strange sound 
in the yard. She snorted impatiently and sat up in 
bed. Could some beneficent creature of the night be 
out there sawing wood for her? It sounded like it. 
But she rejected the idea at once. Rubbing her 
eyes with both fists, she crept to the window and 
looked out. 

There was a round moon in the sky, shining over 
the roof of the barn, and the yard was full of a white, 
witchy radiance. In the middle of it crouched 
two big porcupines, gnawing assiduously at a 
small wooden tub. The noise of their busy teeth on 
the hard wood rang loud upon the stillness, and a 
low tonk-a-tonk of cow-bells came from the pasture 
as the cows lifted their heads to listen. 

The tub was a perfectly good tub, and Mrs. Gammit 
was indignant at seeing it eaten. It had contained 
salt herrings; and she intended, after getting the fla- 
vour of fish scoured out of it, to use it for packing her 
winter’s butter. She did not know that it was for the 
sake of its salty flavour that the porcupines were 
gnawing at it, but leaped to the conclusion that 
their sole object was to annoy and persecute her- 
self. 

“ Shoo ! Shoo ! ” she cried, snatching off her night- 
cap and flapping it at them frantically. But the 
animals were too busy to even look up at her. The 
only sign they gave of having heard her was to raise 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 233 


their quills straight on end so that their size appar- 
ently doubled itself all at once. 

Mrs. Gammit felt herself wronged. As she turned 
and ran downstairs she muttered, “First it’s me aigs 
— an’ now it’s me little tub — an’ Lordy knows what 
it’s goin’ to be next!” Then her dauntless spirit 
flamed up again, and she snapped, “But there ain’t 
agoin’ to be no next!” and cast her eyes about her 
for the broom. 

Of course, at this moment, when it was most 
needed, that usually exemplary article was not where 
it ought to have been — standing beside the dresser. 
Having no time to look for it, Mrs. Gammit snatched 
up the potato-masher, and rushed forth into the moon- 
light with a gurgling yell, resolved to save the 
tub. 

She was a formidable figure as she charged down 
the yard, and at ordinary times the porcupines might 
have given way. But when a porcupine has found 
something it really likes to eat, its courage is superb. 
These two porcupines found the herring-tub delicious 
beyond anything they had ever tasted. Reluctantly 
they stopped gnawing for a moment, and turned 
their little twinkling eyes upon Mrs. Gammit in sullen 
defiance. 

Now this was by no means what she had expected, 
and the ferocity of her attack slackened. Had it 
been a lynx, or even a bear, her courage would prob- 
ably not have failed her. Had it been a man, a 


2 34 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


desperado with knife in hand and murder in his eyes, 
she would have flown upon him in contemptuous 
fury. But porcupines were different. They were 
mysterious to her. She believed firmly that they 
could shoot their quills, like arrows, to a distance 
of ten feet. She had a swift vision of herself stuck 
full of quills, like a pincushion. At a distance of 
eleven feet she stopped abruptly, and hurled the 
potato-masher with a deadly energy which carried 
it clean over the barn. Then the porcupines resumed 
their feasting, while she stared at them helplessly. 
Two large tears of rage brimmed her eyes, and rolled 
down her battered cheeks; and backing off a few 
paces she sat down upon the saw-horse to consider 
the situation. 

But never would Mrs. Gammit have been what she 
was had she been capable of acknowledging defeat. 
In a very few moments her resourceful wits reas- 
serted themselves. 

“ Queer!” she mused. “One don’t never kinder 
seem to hit what one aims at! But one always hits 
somethin’ ! Leastways, I do ! If I jest fling enough 
things, an’ keep on aflingin’, I might hit a porky- 
pine jest as well as anything else. There ain’t naw- 
thin’ onnateral about a porkypine, to keep one from 
hitt’n’ him, I reckon.” 

The wood-pile was close by; and the wood, which 
she had sawed and split for the kitchen stove, was 
of just the handy size. She was careful, now, not to 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 235 

take aim, but imagined herself anxious to establish 
a new wood-pile, in haste, just about where that sound 
of insolent gnawing was disturbing the night. In 
a moment a shower of sizable firewood was drop- 
ping all about the herring-tub. 

The effect was instantaneous. The gnawing 
stopped, and the porcupines glanced about uneasily. 
A stick fell plump upon the bottom of the tub, 
staving it in. The porcupines backed away and eyed 
it with grieved suspicion. Another stick struck it 
on the side, so that it bounced like a jumping, live 
thing, and hit one of the porcupines sharply, rolling 
him over on his back. Instantly his valiant quills 
went down quite flat ; and as he wriggled to his feet 
with a squeak of alarm, he looked all at once little 
and lean and dark, like a wet hen. Mrs. Gammit 
smiled grimly. 

“Ye ain’t feelin’ quite so sassy now, be ye?” 
she muttered; and the sticks flew the faster from 
her energetic hands. Not many of them, to be sure, 
went at all in the direction she wished, but enough 
were dropping about the herring-tub to make the 
porcupines remember that they had business else- 
where. The one that had been struck had no longer 
any regard for his dignity, but made himself as small 
as possible and scurried off like a scared rat. The 
other, unvanquished but indignant, withdrew slowly, 
with every quill on end. The sticks fell all about him ; 
but Mrs. Gammit, in the excitement of her triumph, 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


236 

was now forgetting herself so far as to take aim, 
therefore never a missile touched him. And pres- 
ently, without haste, he disappeared behind the 
barn. 

With something almost like admiration Mrs. 
Gammit eyed his departure. 

“Well, seein’ as I hain’t scairt ye much,” she mut- 
tered dryly, “mebbe ye’ll obleege me by coming back 
an’ gittin’ into my trap. But ye ain’t agoin’ 
to hev.no more o’ my good herrin’-tub, ye ain’t.” 
And she strode down the yard to get the tub. It 
was no longer a good tub, for the porcupines had 
gnawed two big holes in the sides, and Mrs. Gammit’s 
own missiles had broken in the bottom. But she 
obstinately bore the poor relics into the kitchen. 
Firewood they might become, but not food for the 
enemy. 

No more that night was the good woman’s sleep 
disturbed, and she slept later than usual. As she 
was getting up, conscience-stricken at the sound of 
the cows in the pasture lowing to be milked, she heard 
a squawking and fluttering under the barn, and 
rushed out half dressed to see what was the matter. 
She had no doubt that one of the audacious porcu- 
pines had got himself into a trap. 

But no, it was neither porcupine, fox, nor weasel. 
To her consternation, it was her old red top-knot 
hen, which now lay flat upon the trap, with out- 
stretched wings, exhausted by its convulsive flop- 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 237 

pings. She picked it up, loosed the deadly grip 
upon its leg, and slammed the offending trap across 
the barn with such violence that it bounced up and 
fell into the swill-barrel. Her feelings thus a little 
relieved, she examined Red Top-knot’s leg with care. 
It was hopelessly shattered and mangled. 

“Ye cain’t never scratch with that ag’in, ye cain’t!” 
muttered Mrs. Gammit, compassionately. “Poor 
dear, ther ain’t nawthin’ fer it but to make vittles 
of ye now! Too bad! Too bad! Ye was always 
sech a fine layer an’ a right smart setter!” And 
carrying the victim to the block on which she was 
wont to split kindling wood, she gently but firmly 
chopped her head off. 

Half an hour later, as Mrs. Gammit returned from 
the pasture with a brimming pail of milk, again she 
heard a commotion under the barn. But she would 
not hurry, lest she should spill the milk. “What- 
ever it be, it’ll be there when I git there!” she mut- 
tered philosophically; and kept on to the cool 
cellar with her milk. But as soon as she had de- 
posited the pail she turned and fairly ran in her eager- 
ness. The speckled hen was cackling vain-glori- 
ously; and as Mrs. Gammit passed the row of 
nests in the shed she saw a white egg shining. But 
she did not stop to secure it. 

As she entered the barn, a little yellowish brown 
animal, with a sharp, triangular nose and savage 
eyes like drops of fire, ran at her with such fury that 


238 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

for an instant she drew back. Then, with a roar 
of indignation at its audacity, she rushed forward 
and kicked at it. The kick struck empty air; but 
the substantial dimensions of the foot seemed to 
daunt the daring little beast, and it slipped away 
like a darting flame beneath the sill of the barn. 
The next moment, as she stooped to look at the near- 
est of the two traps, another slim yellow creature, 
larger than the first, leaped up, with a vicious cry, 
and almost reached her face. But, fortunately for 
her, it was held fast by both hind legs in the trap, 
and fell back impotent. 

Startled and enraged, Mrs. Gammit kicked at it, 
where it. lay darting and twisting like a snake. Natu- 
rally, she missed it; but it did not miss her. 
With unerring aim it caught the toe of her heavy cow- 
hide shoe, and fixed its teeth in the tough leather. 
Utterly taken by surprise, Mrs. Gammit tried 
to jump backwards. But instead of that, she 
fell flat on her back, with a yell. Her sturdy heels 
flew up in the air, while her petticoats flopped back 
in her face, bewildering her. The weasel, however, 
had maintained his dogged grip upon the toe of her 
shoe; so something had to give. That something 
was the cord which anchored the trap. It broke 
under the sudden strain. Trap and weasel together 
went flying over Mrs. Gammit’s prostrate head. 
They brought up with a stupefying slam against 
the wall of the pig-pen, making the pig squeal 
apprehensively. 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 239 


Disconcerted and mortified, Mrs. Gammit scram- 
bled to her feet, shook her petticoats into shape, and 
glanced about to see if the wilderness in general had 
observed her indiscretion. Apparently, nothing 
had noticed it. Then, with an air of relief, she 
glanced down at her vicious little antagonist. The 
weasel lay stunned, apparently dead. But she was 
not going to trust appearances. Picking trap and 
victim up together, on the end of a pitchfork, she 
carried them out and dropped them into the barrel 
of rain water at the corner of the house. Half- 
revived by the shock, the yellow body wriggled for 
a moment or two at the bottom of the barrel. 
As she watched it, a doubt passed through Mrs. 
Gammit’s mind. Could Joe Barron have been 
right? Was it weasels, after all, that were taking 
her eggs? But she dismissed the idea at once. Joe 
Barron didn’t know everything! And there, indis- 
putably, were the porcupines, bothering her all 
the time, with unheard-of impudence. Weasels, in- 
deed ! 

“ ’Twa’n’t you I was after,” she muttered obsti- 
nately, apostrophizing the now motionless form in 
the rain-barrel. “It was them dratted porky- 
pines, as comes after my aigs. But ye're a bad lot, 
too, an’ I’m right glad to have got ye where ye won’t 
be up to no mischief.” 

All athrill with excitement, Mrs. Gammit hurried 
through her morning’s chores, and allowed herself no 


240 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


breakfast except half a dozen violent cups of tea 
“with sweetenin’.” Then, satisfied that the weasel 
in the rain-barrel was by this time securely and per- 
manently dead, she fished it out, and reset the trap 
in its place under the barn. The other trap she dis- 
covered in the swill-barrel, after a long search. Re- 
lieved to find it unbroken, she cleaned it carefully 
and put it away to be returned, in due time, to its 
owner. She would not set it again — and, indeed, she 
would have liked to smash it to bits, as a sacrifice 
to the memory of poor Red Top-knot. 

“I hain’t got no manner o’ use fer a porkypine 
trap what’ll go out o’ its way to ketch hens,” she 
grumbled. 

The silent summer forenoon, after this, wore 
away without event. Mrs. Gammit, working in her 
garden behind the house, with the hot, sweet scent 
of the flowering buckwheat-field in her nostrils and 
the drowsy hum of bees in her ears, would throw 
down her hoe about once in every half-hour and run 
into the barn to look hopefully at the traps. But 
nothing came to disturb them. Neither did any- 
thing come to disturb the hens, who attended so well 
to business that at noon Mrs. Gammit had seven 
fresh eggs to carry in. When night came, and 
neither weasels nor porcupines had given any further 
sign of their existence, Mrs. Gammit was puzzled. 
She was one of those impetuous women who expect 
everything to happen all at once. When milking 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 241 

was over, and her solitary, congenial supper, she sat 
down on the kitchen doorstep and considered the 
situation very carefully. 

What she had set herself out to do, after the inter- 
view with Joe Barron, was to catch a porcupine in 
one of his traps, and thus, according to her peculiar 
method of reasoning, convince the confident woods- 
man that porcupines did eat eggs! As for the 
episode of the weasel, she resolved that she would 
not say anything to him about it, lest he should twist 
it into a confirmation of his own views. As for 
those seven eggs, so happily spared to her, she 
argued that the capture of the weasel, with all its 
attendant excitement, had served as a warning to 
the porcupines and put them on their guard. Well, 
she would give them something else to think about. 
She was now all impatience, and felt unwilling to 
await the developments of the morrow, which, after 
all, might refuse to develop! With a sudden reso- 
lution she arose, fetched the gnawed and battered 
remains of the herring-tub from their conceal- 
ment behind the kitchen door, and propped them 
up against the side of the house, directly beneath 
her bedroom window. 

At first her purpose in this was not quite clear to 
herself. But the memory of her triumph of the 
previous night was tingling in her veins, and she 
only knew she wanted to lure the porcupines back, 
that she might do something to them. And first, 

R 


242 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


being a woman, that something occurred to her in 
connexion with hot water. How conclusive it 
would be to wait till the porcupines were absorbed 
in their consumption of the herring-tub, and then 
pour scalding water down upon them. After all, 
it was more important that she should vanquish her 
enemies than prove to a mere man that they 
really were her enemies. What did she care, anyway, 
what that Joe Barron thought? Then, once more, a 
doubt assailed her. What if he were right? Not 
that she would admit it, for one moment. But just 
supposing! Was she going to pour hot water on 
those porcupines, and scald all the bristles off their 
backs, if they really didn't come after her eggs? 
Mrs. Gammit was essentially just and kind-hearted, 
and she came to the conclusion that the scheme might 
be too cruel. 

“ Ef it be you uns as takes the aigs,” she murmured 
thoughtfully, “a kittle o’ bilin’ water to yer backs 
ain’t none too bad fer ye ! But ef it be only my old 
herrin’-tub ye’re after, then bilin’ water’s too 
ha’sh !” 

In the end, the weapon she decided upon was the 
big tin pepper-pot, well loaded. 

Through the twilight, while the yard was all in 
shadow, Mrs. Gammit sat patient and motionless 
beside her open window. The moon rose, seeming to 
climb with effort out of the tangle of far-off tree-tops. 
The faint, rhythmic breathing of the wilderness, 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 243 

which, to the sensitive ear, never ceases even in the 
most profound calm, took on the night change, 
the whisper of mystery, the furtive suggestion of 
menace which the daylight lacks. Sitting there in 
ambush, Mrs. Gammit felt it all, and her eager face 
grew still and pale and solemn like a statue’s. 
The moonlight crept down the roofs of the barn and 
shed and house, then down the walls, till only the 
ground was in shadow. And at last, through this 
lower stratum of obscurity, Mrs. Gammit saw two 
squat, sturdy shapes approaching leisurely from 
behind the barn. 

She held her breath. Yes, it was undoubtedly 
the porcupines. Undaunted by the memory of 
their previous discomfiture, they came straight across 
the yard, and up to the house, and fell at once to 
their feasting on the herring-tub. The noise of their 
enthusiastic gnawing echoed strangely across the 
attentive air. 

Very gently, with almost imperceptible motion, 
Mrs. Gammit slid her right hand, armed with the 
pepper-pot, over the edge of the window-sill. The 
porcupines, enraptured with the flavour of the 
herring-tub, never looked up. Mrs. Gammit was 
just about to turn the pepper-pot over, when she 
saw a third dim shape approaching, and stayed her 
hand. It was bigger than a porcupine. She kept 
very still, breathing noiselessly through parted lips. 
Then the moonlight reached the ground, the shadows 


244 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


vanished, and she saw a big wildcat stealing up to 
find out what the porcupines were eating. 

Seeing the feasters so confident and noisy, yet 
undisturbed, the usually cautious wildcat seemed to 
think there could be no danger near. Had Mrs. 
Gammit stirred a muscle, he would have marked 
her; but in her movelessness her head and hand 
passed for some harmless natural phenomenon. 
The wildcat crept softly up, and as he drew near, 
the porcupines raised their quills threateningly, till 
nothing could be seen of their bodies but their blunt 
snouts still busy on the herring-tub. At a dis- 
tance of about six feet the big cat stopped, and 
crouched, glaring with wide, pale eyes, and sniffing 
eagerly. Mrs. Gammit was amazed that the porcu- 
pines did not at once discharge a volley at him and 
fill him full of quills for his intrusion. 

The wildcat knew too much about porcupines to 
dream of attacking them. It was what they were 
eating that interested him. They seemed to enjoy 
it so much. He crept a few inches nearer, and 
caught a whiff of the herring-tub. Yes, it was 
certainly fish. A true cat, he doted on fish, even 
salt fish. He made another cautious advance, 
hoping that the porcupines might retire discreetly. 
But instead of that they merely stopped gnawing, 
put their noses between their forelegs, squatted 
flat, and presented an unbroken array of needle 
points to his dangerous approach. 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 


245 


The big cat stopped, quite baffled, his little short 
tail, not more than three inches long, twitching 
with anger. He could not see that the tub was 
empty; but he could smell it, and he drew in his 
breath with noisy sniffling. It filled him with 
rage to be so baffled; for he knew it would be fatal 
to go any nearer, and so expose himself to a deadly 
slap from the armed tails of the porcupines. 

Just what he would have attempted, however, 
in his eagerness, will never be known. For at this 
point, Mrs. Gammit’s impatience overcame her 
curiosity. With a gentle motion of her wrist she 
turned the pepper-pot over, and softly shook it. The 
eyes of the wildcat were fixed upon that won- 
derful, unattainable herring-tub, and he saw nothing 
else. But Mrs. Gammit in the vivid moonlight saw 
a fine cloud of pepper sinking downwards slowly on 
the moveless air. 

Suddenly the wildcat pawed at his nose, drew 
back, and grew rigid with what seemed an effort 
to restrain some deep emotion. The next moment 
he gave vent to a loud, convulsive sneeze, and began 
to spit savagely. He appeared to be not only very 
angry, but surprised as well. When he fell to clawing 
frantically at his eyes and nose with both paws, Mrs. 
Gammit almost strangled with the effort to keep 
from laughing. But she held herself in, and con- 
tinued to shake down the pungent shower. A 
moment more, and the wildcat, after an explosion 


246 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

of sneezes which almost made him stand on his head, 
gave utterance to a yowl of consternation, and turned 
to flee. As he bounded across the yard he evi- 
dently did not see just where he was going, for 
he ran head first into the wheelbarrow, which 
straightway upset and kicked him. For an instant 
he clawed at it wildly, mistaking it for a living assail- 
ant. Then he recovered his wits a little, and scur- 
ried away across the pasture, sneezing and spitting 
as he went. 

Meanwhile the porcupines, with their noses to the 
ground and their eyes covered, had been escaping 
the insidious attack of the pepper. But at last it 
reached them. Mrs. Gammit saw a curious shiver 
pass over the array of quills. 

Now it was contrary to all the most rigid laws of 
the porcupine kind to uncoil themselves in the face 
of danger. At the same time, it was impossible 
to sneeze in so constrained an attitude. Their 
effort was heroic, but self-control at last gave way. 
As it were with a snap, one of the globes of quills 
straightened itself out, and sneezed and sneezed and 
sneezed. Then the other went through the same 
spasmodic process, while Mrs. Gammit, leaning half- 
way out of the window, squealed and choked with de- 
light. But the porcupines were obstinate, and would 
not run away. Very slowly they turned and retired 
down the yard, halting every few feet to sneeze. With 
tears streaming down her cheeks Mrs. Gammit 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 247 

watched their retreat, till suddenly some of the 
vagrant pepper was wafted back to her own nostrils, 
and she herself was shaken with a mighty sneeze. 
This checked her mirth on the instant. Her face 
grew grave, and drawing back with a mortified air 
she slammed the window down. 

“ Might ’a’ knowed I’d be aketchin’ cold,” she 
muttered, “settin’ in a draught this time o’ night.” 

Not until she had thoroughly mastered the 
tickling in her nostrils did she glance forth again. 
Then the porcupines were gone, and not even an 
echo of their far-off sneezes reached her ears. 

In the days that followed, neither weasel, wildcat, 
nor porcupine came to Mrs. Gammit’s clearing, and 
the daily harvest of strictly fresh eggs was unfailing. 
At the end of a week, the good lady felt justified in 
returning the traps to Joe Barron, and letting him 
know how mistaken he had been. 

“There, Mr. Barron,” said she, handing him the 
three traps, “I’m obleeged to you, an’ there’s yer 
traps. But there’s one of ’em ain’t no good.” 

“Which one be it?” asked the woodsman as he took 
them. 

“I’ve marked it with a bit of string,” replied Mrs. 
Gammit. 

“What’s the matter with it? I don’t see naw- 
thin’ wrong with it!” said Barron, examining it criti- 
cally. 

“’Tain’t no good! You take my word fer it! 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


248 

That’s all I’ve got to say!” persisted Mrs. Gam- 
mit. 

“Oh, well, seein’ as it’s you sez so, Mrs. Gammit, 
that’s enough,” agreed the woodsman, civilly. “But 
the other is all right, eh? What did they ketch?” 

“Well, they ketched a big weasel!” said Mrs. 
Gammit, eyeing him with challenge. 

A broad smile went over Barron’s face. 

“I knowed it,” he exclaimed. “I knowed as how 
it was a weasel.” 

“An’ I knowed as how ye’d say jest them very 
words,” retorted Mrs. Gammit. “But ye don’t 
know everythin’, Joe Barron. It wa’n’t no weasel 
as was takin’ them there aigs ! ” 

“What were it then?” demanded the woodsman, 
increduously. 

“It was two big porkypines an’ a monstrous big 
wildcat,” answered Mrs. Gammit in triumph. 

“Did ye ketch ’em at it?” asked the woodsman, 
with a faint note of sarcasm in his voice. But the 
sarcasm glanced off Mrs. Gammit’s armour. She 
regarded the question as a quite legitimate one. 

“No, I kain’t say as I did, exackly,” she replied. 
“But they come anosin’ round, an’ to teach ’em a 
lesson to keep ther noses out o’ other people’s hens’ 
nests I shook a little pepper over ’em. I tell ye, they 
took to the woods, asneezin’ that bad I thought 
ye might ’a’ heard ’em all the way over here. 
Ye’d ’ave bust yerself laffin’, ef ye could ’a’ seed 


MRS. GAMMIT AND THE PORCUPINES 249 


’em rootin’. An’ since then, Mr. Barron, I git 
all the aigs I want. Don’t ye talk to me o’ weasels 
— the skinny little rats. They ain’t wuth noticin’, 
no more’n a chipmunk.” 


The Battle in the Mist 


I N the silver-grey between dawn and sunrise the 
river was filled with mist from bank to bank. It 
coiled and writhed and rolled, here thinning, there 
thickening, as if breathed upon irregularly by 
innumerable unseen mouths. But there was no 
wind astir; and the brown-black, glistening current 
beneath the white folds was glassy smooth save 
where the occasional big swirls boiled up with a 
swishing gurgle, or the running wave broke musically 
around an upthrust shoulder of rock or a weedy 
snag. The river was not wide — not more than 
fifty yards from bank to bank; but from the 
birch canoe slipping quietly down along one shore, 
just outside the fringe of alder branches, the op- 
posite shore was absolutely hidden. There was 
nothing to indicate that an opposite shore existed, 
save that now and again the dark top of a soaring 
pine or elm would show dimly for a moment, seeming 
to float above the ghostly gulfs of mist. 

The canoe kept close along the shore for guidance, 
as one feels one’s way along a wall in the dark. The 


THE BATTLE IN THE MIST 


2 5 l 


channel, moreover, was deep and clear in shore; 
while out under the mist the soft noises of ripples 
proclaimed to the ears of the two canoeists the pres- 
ence of frequent rock and snag and shallow. Lest 
they should run upon unseen dangers ahead, the 
canoeists were travelling very slowly, the bow- 
man resting with his paddle across the gunwales be- 
fore him, while the stern-man, his paddle noise- 
lessly waving like the fin of a trout, did no more 
than keep his craft to her course and let her run 
with the current. 

Down along the shore, keeping just behind the 
canoe and close to the water’s edge, followed a 
small, dark, sinuous creature, its piercing eyes, 
bead-black with a glint of red behind them, fixed in 
savage curiosity upon the canoemen. It was about 
two feet in length, with extremely short legs, and a 
sharp, triangular head. As it ran — and its move- 
ments were as soundless and effortless as those of 
a snake — it humped its long, lithe body in a way 
that suggested a snake’s coils. It seemed to be 
following the canoe out of sheer curiosity — a 
curiosity, however, which was probably well mixed 
with malevolence, seeing that it was the curiosity 
of a mink. These two strange creatures moving on 
the water were, of course, too large and formidable 
for the big mink to dream of attacking them; 
but he could wonder at them and hate them — 
and who could say that some chance to do them 


252 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


a hurt might not arise? Stealthy, wary, and bold, 
he kept his distance about eight or ten feet from 
the canoe; and because he was behind he imagined 
himself unseen. As a matter of fact, however, the 
steersman of the canoe, wiser in woodcraft and 
cunninger even than he, had detected him and 
was watching him with interest from the corner 
of his eye. So large a mink, and one so daring in 
curiosity, was a phenomenon to be watched and 
studied with care. The canoeist did not take his 
comrade in the bow into his confidence for some 
minutes, lest the sound of the human voice should 
daunt the animal. But presently, in a monotonous, 
rhythmic murmur which carried no alarm to the 
mink’s ear but only heightened its interest, he 
called the situation to his companion’s notice; 
and the latter, without seeming to see, kept watch 
through half-closed lids. 

A little way down the shore, close to the water’s 
edge, something round and white caught the mink’s 
eye. Against the soft browns and dark greys of the 
wet soil, the object fairly shone in its whiteness, and 
seemed absurdly out of place. It was a hen’s 
egg, either dropped there by a careless hen from the 
pioneer’s cabin near by, or left by a musk-rat dis- 
turbed in his poaching. However it had got there, 
it was an egg; and the canoeists saw that they no 
longer held the mink’s undivided attention. Gently 
the steersman sheered out a few feet farther from 


THE BATTLE IN THE MIST 253 

the bank, and at the same time checked the canoe’s 
headway. He wanted to see how the mink would 
manipulate the egg when he got to it. 

The egg lay at the foot of a little path which led 
down the bushy bank to the water — a path evi- 
dently trodden by the pioneer’s cattle. Down 
this path, stepping daintily and turning his long 
inquisitive nose and big, bright, mischievous eyes 
from side to side, came a raccoon. He was a small 
raccoon, a little shorter than the mink, but looking 
heavier by reason of his more stocky build and 
bushier, looser fur. His purpose was to fish or 
hunt frogs in the pool at the foot of the path; but 
when he saw the egg gleaming through the misty 
air, his eyes sparkled with satisfaction. A long 
summer passed in proximity to the pioneer’s cabin 
had enabled him to find out that eggs were good. 
He hastened his steps, and with a sliding scramble, 
which attracted the attention of the men in the 
canoe, he arrived at the water’s edge. But to his 
indignant astonishment he was not the first to 
arrive. 

The mink was just ahead. He reached the egg, 
laid one paw upon it in possession, and turned with a 
snarl of defiance as the raccoon came down the 
bank. The latter paused to note the threatening 
fangs and malign eyes of his slim rival. Then, with 
that brisk gaiety which the raccoon carries into the 
most serious affairs of his life, and particularly into 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


254 

his battles, he ran to the encounter. The men in the 
canoe, eagerly interested, stole nearer to referee the 
match. 

Quick as the raccoon was, his snake-like adversary 
was quicker. Doubling back upon himself, the 
mink avoided that confident and dangerous rush, and 
with a lightning snap fixed hold upon his enemy’s 
neck. But it was not, by half an inch, the hold 
he wanted; and his long, deadly teeth sank not, as 
he had planned, into the foe’s throat, but into the 
great tough muscles a little higher up. He dared 
not let go to try for the deadlier hold, but locked his 
jaws and whipped his long body over the other’s back, 
hoping to evade his antagonist’s teeth. 

The raccoon had lost the first point, and his large 
eyes blazed with pain and anger. But his dauntless 
spirit was not in the least dismayed. Shaking 
the long, black body from his back, he swung himself 
half round and caught his enemy’s slim loins be- 
tween his jaws. It was a cruelly punishing grip, 
and under the stress of it the mink lashed out so vio- 
lently that the two, still holding on with locked 
jaws, rolled over into the water, smashing the egg as 
they fell. The canoe, now close beside them, they 
heeded not at all. 

“Two to one on the mink!” whispered the traveller 
in the bow of the canoe, delightedly. But the steers- 
man smiled, and said “Wait!” 

To be in the water suited the mink well enough. A 


THE BATTLE IN THE MIST 


2 55 


hunter of fish in their holes, he was almost as much 
at home in the water as a fish. But the raccoon it 
did not suit at all. With a splutter he relinquished 
his hold on the mink’s loins; and the latter, per- 
ceiving the advantage, let go and snapped again for 
the throat. But again he miscalculated the alertness 
of the raccoon’s sturdy muscles. The latter had 
turned his head the instant that the mink’s jaws 
relaxed, and the two gnashed teeth in each other’s 
faces, neither securing a hold. The next moment 
the raccoon had leaped back to dry land, turning in 
threatening readiness as he did so. 

Though there was no longer anything to fight 
about, the mink’s blood was up. His eyes glowed 
like red coals, his long, black shape looked very 
fit and dangerous, and his whole appearance was that 
of vindictive fury. The raccoon, on the other hand, 
though bedraggled from his ducking, maintained his 
gay, casual air, as if enjoying the whole affair 
too much to be thoroughly enraged. When the 
mink darted upon him, straight as a snake strikes, 
he met the attack with a curious little pirouette; 
and the next instant the two were once more locked 
in a death grapple. 

It was some moments before the breathless 
watchers in the canoe could make out which was 
getting the advantage, so closely were the grey 
body and the black intertwined. Then it was seen 
that the raccoon was using his flexible, hand-like 


256 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


paws as a bear might, to hold his foe down to the 
punishment. Both contestants were much cut, and 
bleeding freely; but the mink was now getting 
slow, while the raccoon was as cheerfully alert as 
ever. At length the mink tore loose and made one 
more desperate reach for his favourite throat-hold. 
But this time it was the raccoon who avoided. He 
danced aside, flashed back, and caught the mink 
fairly under the jaw. Then, bracing, himself, he 
shook his foe as a terrier might. And in a minute 
or two the long, black shape straightened out 
limply amid the sand and dead leaves. 

When the body was quite still the raccoon let 
go and stood over it expectantly for some minutes. 
He bit it several times, and seeing that this treat- 
ment elicited no retort, suffered himself to feel 
assured of his victory. Highly pleased, he skipped 
back and forth over the body, playfully seized it 
with his fore-paws, and bundled it up into a heap. 
Then seeming to remember the origin of the quarrel, 
he sniffed regretfully at the crumbled fragments 
of egg-shell. His expression of disappointment was 
so ludicrous that in spite of themselves the men in 
the canoe exploded with laughter. 

As the harsh, incongruous sound startled the 
white stillnesses, in the lifting of an eyelid the little 
conqueror vanished. One of the canoeists stepped 
ashore, picked up the body of the slain mink, and 
threw it into the canoe. As the two resumed their 


THE BATTLE IN THE MIST 


2 57 


paddles and slipped away into the mist, they knew 
that from some hiding-place on the bank two 
bright, indignant eyes were peering after them in 
wonder. 


Melindy and the Spring Bear 


S OFT, wet and tender, with a faint green filming 
the sodden pasture field, and a rose-pink veil 
covering the maples, and blue-grey catkins tinting 
the dark alders, spring had come to the lonely little 
clearing in the backwoods. From the swampy 
meadow along the brook’s edge, across the road from 
the cabin and the straw-littered barn-yard, came 
toward evening that music which is the distinctive 
note of the northern spring — the thrilling, mellow, 
inexpressibly wistful fluting of the frogs. 

The sun was just withdrawing his uppermost 
rim behind the far-off black horizon line of fir-tops. 
The cabin door stood wide open to admit the sweet 
air and the sweet sound. Just inside the door 
sat old Mrs. Griffis, rocking heavily, while the woollen 
sock which she was knitting lay forgotten in her 
lap. She was a strong-featured, muscular woman, 
still full of vigour, whom rheumatism had met and 
halted in the busy path of life. Her keen and restless 
eyes were following eagerly every movement of a 
slender, light-haired girl in a blue cotton waist 
258 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 259 

and grey homespun skirt, who was busy at the 
other side of the yard, getting her little flock of 
sheep penned up for the night for fear of wild 
prowlers. 

Presently the girl slammed the pen door, jammed 
the hardwood peg into the staple, ran her fingers 
nervously through the pale fluff of her hair, and 
came hurrying across the yard to the door with a 
smile on her delicate young face. 

“There, Granny!” she exclaimed, with the air 
of one who has just got a number of troublesome 
little duties accomplished, “I guess no lynxes, or 
nothing, ’ll get the sheep to-night, anyways. Now, 
I must go an’ hunt up old ‘Spotty’ afore it gets too 
dark. I don’t see what’s made her wander off to- 
day. She always sticks around the barn close as a 
burr !” 

The old woman smiled, knowing that the survival 
of a wild instinct in the cow had led her to seek 
some hiding-place, near home but secluded, wherein 
to secrete her new-born calf. 

“I guess old ‘Spotty’ knows enough to come 
home when she gets ready, Child!” she answered. 
“She’s been kept that close all winter, the snow 
bein’ so deep, I don’t wonder she wants to roam a 
bit now she can git ’round. Land sakes, I wish’t I 
could roam a bit, ’stead er sittin’, sittin’, an’ knittin’, 
knittin’, mornin’, noon an’ night, all along of these 
’ere useless old' legs of mine!” 


26 o 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


“Poor Granny!” murmured the girl, softly, tears 
coming into her eyes. “I wish’t we could get 
’round, the two of us, in these sweet-smellin’ spring 
woods, an’ get the first Mayflowers together ! 
Couldn’t you just try now, Granny? I believe 
you are goin’ to walk all right again some day, just 
as well as any of us. Do try!” 

Thus adjured, the old woman grasped the arms 
of her chair sturdily, set her jaw, and lifted herself 
quite upright. But a groan forced itself from her 
lips, and she sank back heavily, her face creased 
with pain. Recovering herself with a resolute 
effort, however, she smiled rather ruefully. 

“Some day, mebbe, if the good Lord wills!” 
said she, shaking her head. “But ’tain’t this day, 
Melindy ! You’ll be the death o’ me yet, Child, 
you’re so set on me gittin’ ’round ag’in!” 

“Why, Granny, you did splendid!” cried the 
girl. “That was the best yet, the best you’ve 
ever done since I come to you. You stood just as 
straight as anybody for a minute. Now, I’ll go 
an’ hunt old ‘Spotty.’” And she turned toward 
the tiny path that led across the pasture to the 
burnt-woods. 

But Mrs. Griffis’s voice detained her. 

“What’s the good o’ botherin’ about old ‘Spotty’ 
to-night, Melindy? Let her have her fling. Them 
frogs make me that lonesome to-night I can’t 
bear to let ye a minnit out o’ my sight, Child! 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 261 


Ther’ ain’t no other sound like it, to my way 
o’ thinkhaj, for music nor for lonesomeness. It 
’most breaks my heart with the sweetness of it, 
risin’ an’ failin’ on the wet twilight that way. 
But I just got to have somebody ’round when I 
listen to it!” 

“Yes, Granny, I love it, too!” assented Melindy 
in a preoccupied tone, “when I ain’t too bothered 
to listen. Just now, I’m thinkin’ about old ‘Spotty’ 
out there alone in the woods, an’ maybe some 
hungry lynxes watchin’ for her to lie down an’ go 
to sleep. You know how hungry the bears will be 
this spring, too, Granny, after the snow layin’ deep 
so late. I just couldn’t sleep, if I thought old 
‘Spotty’ was out there in them queer, grey, empty 
woods all night. In summer it’s different, an’ 
then the woods are like home.” 

“Well,” said her grandmother, seeing that the 
girl was bent upon her purpose, “if ye’re skeered 
for old ‘Spotty,’ ye’d better be a little mite skeered 
for yerself, Child ! Take along the gun. Mebbe 
ye might see a chipmunk a-bitin’ the old cow jest 
awful !” 

Heedless of her grandmother’s gibe, Melindy, who 
had a very practical brain under her fluffy light 
hair, picked up the handy little axe which she used 
for chopping kindling. 

“No guns for me, Granny, you know,” she re- 
torted. “This ’ere little axe’s good enough for me!” 


262 THE BACKWOODSMEN 

And swinging it over her shoulder she went lightly 
up the path, her head to one side, her small mouth 
puckered in a vain effort to learn to whistle. 

What Melindy and her grandmother called the 
“Burnt Lands” was a strip of country running 
back for miles from the clearing. The fire had 
gone over it years before, cutting a sharply defined, 
gradually widening path through the forest, and 
leaving behind it only a few scattered rampikes, or 
tall, naked trunks bleached to whiteness by the 
storms of many winters. Here and there amid 
these desolate spaces, dense thickets of low growth 
had sprung up, making a secure hiding-place of 
every hollow where the soil had not had all the life 
scorched out of it. 

Having crossed the pasture, Melindy presently 
detected those faint indications of a trail which the 
uninitiated eye finds it so impossible to see. Slight 
bendings and bruises of the blueberry and laurel 
scrub caught her notice. Then she found, in a 
bare spot, the unmistakable print of a cow’s hoof. 
The trail was now quite clear to her; and it was 
clearly that of old “Spotty.” Intent upon her 
quest she hurried on, heedless of the tender colours 
changing in the sky above her head, of the first 
swallows flitting and twittering across it, of the 
keen yet delicate fragrance escaping from every 
sap-swollen bud, and of the sweetly persuasive 
piping of the frogs from the water meadow. She 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 263 

had no thought at that moment but to find the 
truant cow and get her safely stabled before dark. 

The trail led directly to a rocky hollow about a 
hundred yards from the edge of the pasture — per- 
haps a hundred and fifty yards from the doorway 
Wherein Mrs. Griffis sat intently watching Melindy’s 
progress. The hollow was thick with young spruce 
and white birch, clustered about a single tall and 
massive rampike. 

Into this shadowy tangle the girl pushed fearlessly, 
peering ahead beneath the dark, balsam-scented 
branches. She could see, in a broken fashion, to 
the very foot of the rampike, across which lay a huge 
fallen trunk. But she could see nothing of old 
“Spotty,” who, by reason of her vivid colouring 
of red and white splotches, would have been con- 
spicuous against those dark surroundings. 

There was something in the silence, combined 
with the absence of the cow whom she confidently 
expected to find, which sent a little chill to the 
girl’s heart. She gripped her axe more tightly, and 
stood quite motionless, accustoming her eyes to the 
confused gloom; and presently she thought she 
could distinguish a small brownish shape lying on 
a mound of moss near the foot of the rampike. A 
moment more and she could see that it was looking 
at her, with big, soft eyes. Then a pair of big ears 
moved. She realized that it was a calf she was 
looking at. Old “ Spotty’s” truancy was accounted for. 


264 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


But where was old “Spotty”? Melindy thought 
for a moment, and concluded very properly that 
the mother, considering the calf well-hidden, had 
slipped away to the spring for a drink. She was on 
the point of stepping forward to admire the little 
new-comer and see if it was yet strong enough to 
be led home to the barn, when a stealthy rustling 
at the farther side of the thicket arrested her. 

Certainly that could not be the cow, who was 
anything but stealthy in her movements. But what 
could it be ? 

Melindy had a sudden prescience of peril. But 
her nerves stiffened to it, and she had no thought of 
retreat. It might be one of those savage lynxes, 
spying upon the calf in its mother’s absence. At 
this idea Melindy’ s small mouth itself set very grimly, 
and she rejoiced that she had brought the axe along. 
The lynx, of all the wild creatures, she regarded 
with special antagonism. 

The stealthy movements came nearer, nearer, 
then suddenly died out. A moment more and a 
dark bulk took shape noiselessly among the fir- 
branches, some ten or twelve feet beyond the spot 
where the helpless calf was lying. 

For a second Melindy’ s heart stood still. What 
was her little axe against a bear! Then she recalled 
the general backwoods faith that the biggest black 
bear would run from a human being, if only he had 
plenty of room to run. She looked at the helpless 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 265 

little one curled up on its mossy bed. She looked 
at the savage black shape gliding slowly forward to 
devour it. And her heart leaped with returning 
courage. 

The bear, its fierce eyes glancing from side to 
side, was now within five or six feet of its intended 
prey. With a shrill cry of warning and defiance 
Melindy sprang forward, swinging her axe, and ordered 
the beast to “Git out!” She was greatly in hopes 
that the animal would yield to the authority of the 
human voice, and retire abashed. 

At any other season, it is probable that the bear 
would have done just as she hoped it would. But 
now, it had the courage of a rampant spring appetite. 
Startled it was, and disturbed, at the girl’s sudden 
appearance and her shrill cry; and it half drew 
back, hesitating. But Melindy also hesitated; and 
the bear was quick to perceive her hesitation. For a 
few seconds he stood eyeing her, his head down and 
swinging from side to side. Then, seeming to on- 
clude that she was not a formidable antagonist, 
he gave vent to a loud, grunting growl, and lurched 
forward upon the calf. 

With a wild scream, half of fury, half of fear, 
Melindy also darted forward, trusting that the 
animal would not really face her onslaught. And 
the calf, terrified at the sudden outcry, staggered 
to its feet with a loud bleating. 

The bear was just upon it, with great black paw 


266 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


uplifted for the fatal stroke that would have broken 
its back, when he saw Melindy’s axe descending. 
With the speed of a skilled boxer he changed the 
direction of his stroke, and fended off the blow so 
cleverly that the axe almost flew from the girl’s 
grasp. The fine edge, however, caught a partial 
hold, and cleft the paw to the bone. 

Furious with the pain, and his fighting blood now 
thoroughly aroused, the bear forgot the calf and 
sprang at his daring assailant. Light-footed as a 
cat, the girl leapt aside, just in time, darted over 
the fallen trunk, and dodged around the base of 
the rampike. She realized that she had undertaken 
too much, and her only hope now was that either 
she would be able to outrun the bear, or that the 
latter would turn his attentions again to the calf and 
forget about her. 

The bear, however, had no intention of letting her 
escape his vengeance. For all his bulk, he was 
amazingly nimble and was at her heels again in a 
second. Though she might have outstripped him 
in the open, he would probably have caught her in 
the hampering thicket; but at this crucial moment 
there came a bellow and a crashing of branches 
close behind him, and he whirled about just in time 
to receive the raging charge of old “Spotty,” who 
had heard her youngster’s call. 

The bear had no time to dodge or fend this on- 
slaught, but only to brace himself. The cow’s horns, 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 267 

unfortunately, were short and wide-spreading. She 
caught him full in the chest, with the force of a 
battering-ram, and would have hurled him back- 
wards but that his mighty claws and forearms, 
at the same instant, secured a deadly clutch upon 
her shoulders. She bore him backward against 
the trunk indeed, but there he recovered himself; 
and when she strove to withdraw for another batter- 
ing charge, she could not tear herself free. Foiled 
in these tactics, she lunged forward with all her 
strength, again and again, bellowing madly, and 
endeavouring to crush out her enemy’s breath 
against the tree. And the bear, grunting, growling, 
and whining, held her fast while he tore at her with 
his deadly claws. 

Too much excited to think any longer of flight, 
Melindy stood upon the fallen trunk and breathlessly 
watched the battle. In a few moments she realized 
that old “Spotty” was getting the worst of it; 
and upon this her courage once more returned. 
Running down the great log as close as she dared, 
she swung up her axe, and paused for an opening. 
She was just about to strike, when a well-known 
voice arrested her, and she jumped back. 

“Git out of the way, Child,” it commanded, 
piercing the turmoil. “Git out of the way an’ let 
me shoot!” 

The crippled old woman, too, had heard the cry 
of her young. When that scream of Melindy’s 


268 


THE BACKWOODSMEN 


cleft the evening air, Mrs. Griffis had shot out of her 
chair as if she had never heard of rheumatism. She 
did not know anything hurt her. At the summons 
of this imperious need her old vigour all came back. 
Snatching up the big duck-gun from the corner, 
where it stood always loaded and ready, she went 
across the pasture and through the laurel patches 
at a pace almost worthy of Melindy herself. When 
she plunged through the bushes into the hollow, 
and saw the situation, her iron will steadied her 
nerves to meet the crisis. 

The instant Melindy had jumped out of the way 
Mrs. Griffis ran close up to the combatants. The 
bear was being kept too busy to spare her any atten- 
tion whatever. Coolly setting the muzzle of the 
big gun (which was loaded with buck-shot) close 
to the beast’s side, just behind the fore-shoulder, 
she pulled the trigger. There was a roar that filled 
the hollow like the firing of a cannon, and the bear 
collapsed sprawling, with a great hole blown through 
his heart. 

Old “Spotty” drew back astonished, snorted 
noisily, and rolled wild eyes upon her mistress. 
Then, unable to believe that her late foe was really 
no longer a menace to her precious calf, she fell 
once more upon the lifeless form and tried to beat 
it out of all likeness to a bear. The calf, who had 
been knocked over but not hurt in the bear’s charge 
upon Melindy, had struggled to its feet again; and 


MELINDY AND THE SPRING BEAR 269 

Mrs. Griffis pushed it forward to attract its mother’s 
attention. This move proved successful; and pres- 
ently, in the task of licking the little creature 
all over to make sure it was not hurt, “Spotty” 
forgot her noble rage. Then, slowly and patiently, 
by pushing, pulling, and coaxing, the two women 
got the calf up out of the hollow and along the home- 
ward path, while the mother, heedless of her stream- 
ing wounds, crowded against them, mooing softly 
with satisfaction. She was craving now, for her 
little one, the safe shelter of the barn-yard. 

At the well the quaint procession stopped, and 
the calf fell to nursing; while Melindy washed the 
cow’s wounds, and Mrs. Griffis hunted up some tar 
to use as a salve upon them. As she moved briskly 
about the yard, Melindy broke into a peal of joyous 
but almost hysterical laughter. 

“I declare to goodness, Granny,” she cried, in 
response to the old woman’s questioning look, “if 
you ain’t just as spry as me. I’ve heard tell that 
bear’s grease was a great medicine for rheumatism. 
It’s plain to be seen, Granny, that you’ve used up 
a whole bear for yours.” 

“It wasn’t the bear, Child!” answered the old 
woman, gravely. “It was that ter’ble scream o’ 
yours cured my rheumatiz! Old ‘Spotty,’ she 
come to her young one’s call. Could I do less, Child, 
when I heerd my little one cry out fer me?” 



I 


WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE’S 


A Certain Rich Man 

Cloth, $1.50 net 

“ It pulsates with humor, interest, passionate love, adventures, pathos — 
every page is woven with threads of human nature, life as we know it, 
life as it is, and above it all a spirit of righteousness, true piety, and 
heroic patriotism. These inspire the author’s genius and fine literary 
quality, thrilling the reader with tenderest emotion, and holding to the 
end his unflagging, absorbing interest.” — The Public Ledger , Phila- 
delphia. 

“ Mr. White has written a big and satisfying book made up of the ele- 
ments of American life as we know them — the familiar humor, sorrows, 
ambitions, crimes, sacrifices — revealed to us with peculiar freshness and 
vigor in the multitude of human actions and by the crowd of delightful 
people who fill his four-hundred odd pages. ... It deserves a high 
place among the novels that deal with American life. No recent Ameri- 
can novel save one has sought to cover so broad a canvas, or has created 
so strong an impression of ambition and of sincerity.” — Chicago Evening 
Post. 

“ The great fictional expression of this mighty Twentieth Century altruis- 
tic movement is sure to be something in kind and in degree akin to Mr. 
White’s ‘ A Certain Rich Man.” ’ — Brooklyn Daily Eagle. 

“An American novel, home-grown in home soil, vital with homely 
American motives, and fragrant with homely American memories, Mr. 
White has certainly achieved.” — New York Times. 

Dr. Washington Gladden considered this book of sufficient importance to 
take it and the text from which the title was drawn as his subject for an 
entire sermon, in the course of which he said : “ In its ethical and social 
significance it is the most important piece of fiction that has lately 
appeared in America. I do not think that a more trenchant word has 
been spoken to this nation since * Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ And it is pro- 
foundly to be hoped that this book may do for the prevailing Mammon- 
ism what * Uncle Tom’s Cabin ’ did for slavery.” 


PUBLISHED BY 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York 


AMONG RECENT NOVELS 


F. MARION CRAWFORD’S 

Stradella 

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pendent. 

The White Sister 

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“ Mr. Crawford tells his love story with plenty of that dramatic instinct 
which was ever one of his best gifts. We are, as always, absorbed and 
amused.” — New York Tribune. 

“Good stirring romance, simple and poignant.” — Chicago Record 
Herald. 

“His people are always vividly real, invariably individual.” — Boston 
Transcript. 

ROBERT HERRICK’S 

Together 

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library of any woman who is not a fool.” — Editorial in the New York 
American. 

A Life for a Life 

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Mr. W. D. Howells says in the North American Review : “ What I 
should finally say of his work is that it is more broadly based than that 
of any other American novelist of his generation . . . Mr. Herrick’s 
fiction is a force for the higher civilization, which to be widely felt, needs 
only to be widely known.” 

JAMES LANE ALLEN’S 

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thing that has yet come from him. It is like a cry of the soul, so intense 
one scarcely realizes whether it is put into words or not.” — Bookman. 

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WINSTON CHURCHILL’S 

Mr. Crewe’s Career 


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“ Mr. Churchill rises to a level he has never known before and gives us 
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ing appreciation. ... It is good to have such a book.” — New York 
Tribune. 

“American realism, American romance, and American doctrine, all 
overtraced by the kindliest, most appealing American humor.” — New 
York World. 


ELLEN GLASGOW’S 

The Romance of a Plain Man 

Cloth, 121710 , $1.50 net 

“To any one who has a genuine interest in American literature there is 
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is particularly evident in ‘The Romance of a Plain Man.’” — Chicago 
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JACK LONDON’S 

Martin Eden 

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The stirring story of a man who rises by force of sheer ability and perse- 
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variety and interest to the story of Eden’s love and fight. 

ZONA GALE’S 

Friendship Village 

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“ As charming as an April day, all showers and sunshine, and sometimes 
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To be followed by “ Friendship Village Love Stories.” 


CHARLES MAJOR’S 

A Gentle Knight of Old Brandenburg 

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Mr. Major has selected a period to the romance of which other historical 
novelists have been singularly blind. The boyhood of Frederick the 
Great and the strange wooing of his charming sister Wilhelmina have 
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romantic situations. 

MABEL OSGOOD WRIGHT’S 

Poppea of the Post Office 

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“ A rainbow romance, . . . tender yet bracing, cheerily stimulating . . . 
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effective simplicity.” — Boston Advertiser. 

FRANK DANBY’S 

Sebastian 

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Whenever a father’s ideals conflict with a mother’s hopes for the son of 
their dreams, you meet the currents underlying the plot of “ Sebastian.” 
Its author’s skill in making vividly real the types and conditions of London 
has never been shown to better advantage. 

EDEN PHILLPOTTS’ 

The Three Brothers 

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“ ‘The Three Brothers ’ seems to us the best yet of the long series of these 
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such as might have come straight from Elizabeth’s day. . . . The book 
is full of a very moving interest and is agreeable and beautiful.” — The 
Hew York Sun. 


PUBLISHED BY 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York 












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